:}imw^im 


life. 


/-^ 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 


PREFACE 

EiGHT-AND-TWENTY  of  these  tales  appeared  originally  in 
the  Civil  and  Military  Gazette,  I  am  indebted  to  the 
kindness  of  the  Proprietors  of  that  paper  for  permission  to 
reprint  them.    The  remaining  tales  arc  more  or  less  new. 

RUDYARD  KiPLINO. 


^ 


16 

h 

CONTENTS 

fAGS 
LiSPETH 3-^ 

Three  and — ^an  Extra 10 

y  Thrown  Away 15 " 

/'Miss  Youghal's  Sais 26 

'Yoked  with  an  Unbeliever' 34 

.^False  Dawn 46^ 

The  Rescue  of  Pluffles 51 

^^upid's  Arrows 58 

Haunted  Subalterns 64 

The  Three  Musketeers 71 

His  Chance  in  Life       . 79 

Watches  of  the  Night 86 

The  Other  Man  . 93 

Consequences 98^^ 

The  Conversion  of  Aurelian  McGoggin  .     .  105 

The  Taking  of  Lungtungpen 112 

Bitters  Neat 119 

A  Germ-Destroyer 126 

Kidnapped 133 

The  Arrest  of  Lieutenant  Golightly.      .     .  140 

In  the  House  of  Suddhoo 147 

/   His  Wedded  Wife 157 

The  Broken-Link  Handicap 164 

Beyond  the  Pale 171 

In  Error 179 

iz 


z  CONTENTS 

PAGB 

A  Bank  Fraud 185 

Tods'  Amendment 194 

The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment      ....  202 

In  the  Prdde  of  his  Youth 210 

Pig 218 

The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars    ....  229 

The  Bronckhorst  Divorce-Case 240 

Venus  Annodomini 247 

The  Bisara  of  Pooree .     .253 

A  Friend's  Friend 260 

The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows     .     .     .  267 

The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris.      .     .     .  275 

The  Story  of  Muhammad  Dm 285 

On  the  Strength  of  a  Likeness 290  " 

Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office     ....  297 

By  Word  of  Mouth 304 

To  be  Filed  for  Reference 310 


RUDYARD     KIPLING 

A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

By  Charles  Eliot  Norton 

The  deep  and  widespread  interest  which  the  writ- 
ings of  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  have  excited  has  naturally 
led  to  curiosity  concerning  their  author  and  to  a  desire 
to  know  the  conditions  of  his  Ufe.  Much  has  been  writ- 
ten about  him  which  has  had  Uttle  or  no  foundation  in 
truth.  It  seems  then  worth  while,  in  order  to  prevent 
false  or  mistaken  reports  from  being  accepted  as  trust- 
worthy, and  in  order  to  provide  for  the  public  such 
information  concerning  Mr.  Kipling  as  it  has  a  right 
to  possess,  that  a  correct  and  authoritative  statement 
of  the  chief  events  in  his  life  should  be  given  to  it.  This 
is  the  object  of  the  following  brief  narrative. 

Rudyard  Kipling  was  bom  at  Bombay  on  the  30th  of 
December,  1865.  His  mother,  Alice,  daughter  of  the 
Rev.  G.  B.  Macdonald,  a  Wesleyan  preacher,  eminent 
in  that  denomination,  and  his  father,  John  Lockwood 
Kipling,  the  son  also  of  a  Wesleyan  preacher,  were  both 
of  Yorkshire  birth.  They  had  been  married  in  London 
early  in  the  year,  and  they  named  their  firstborn  child 
after  the  pretty  lake  in  Staffordshire  on  the  borders  of 
which  their  acquaintance  had  begim.    Mr.  Lockwood 

zi 


xii  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

Kipling,  after  leaving  school,  had  served  his  apprentice- 
ship in  one  of  the  famous  Staffordshire  potteries  at 
Burslem,  had  afterward  worked  in  the  studio  of  the 
sculptor,  Mr.  Birnie  PhiUp,  and  from  1861  to  1865  had 
been  engaged  on  the  decorations  of  the  South  Kensing- 
ton Museum.  During  our  American  war  and  in  the 
years  immediately  following,  the  trade  of  Bombay  was 
exceedingly  flourishing,  the  city  was  immensely  pros- 
perous, a  spirit  of  inflation  possessed  the  government 
and  the  people  alike,  there  were  great  designs  for  the 
improvement  and  rebuilding  of  large  portions  of  the 
town,  and  a  need  was  felt  for  artistic  oversight  and 
direction  of  the  works  in  hand  and  contemplated.  The 
distinction  which  Mr.  Lockwood  Kipling  had  already 
won  by  his  native  ability  and  thorough  training  led  to 
his  being  appointed  in  1865  to  go  to  Bombay  as  the  pro- 
fessor of  Architectural  Sculpture  in  the  British  School 
of  Art  which  had  been  established  there. 

It  was  thus  that  Rudyard  Kiphng  came  to  be  born 
in  the  most  cosmopolitan  city  of  the  Eastern  world,  and 
it  was  there  and  in  its  neighbourhood  that  the  first  three 
years  of  the  boy's  life  were  spent,  years  in  which  every 
child  receives  ineffaceable  impressions,  shaping  his  con- 
ceptions of  the  world,  and  in  which  a  child  of  peculiarly 
sensitive  nature  and  active  disposition,  such  as  this  boy 
possessed,  lies  open  to  myriad  influences  that  quicken 
and  give  colour  to  the  imagination. 

In  the  spring  of  1868  he  was  taken  by  his  mother  for 
a  visit  to  England,  and  there,  in  the  same  year,  his  sister 
was  born.  In  the  next  year  his  mother  returned  to  India 
with  both  her  children,  and  the  boy's  next  two  years 
were  spent  at  and  near  Bombay. 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  zia 

He  was  a  friendly  and  receptive  child,  eager,  inter- 
ested in  all  the  various  entertaining  aspects  of  life  in  a 
city  which,  ''gleaning  all  races  from  all  lands,'^  presents 
more  diversified  and  picturesque  varieties  of  human 
condition  than  any  other,  East  or  West.  A  little  inci- 
dent which  his  mother  remembers  is  not  without  a 
pretty  allegoric  significance.  It  was  at  Nasik,  on  the 
Dekhan  plain,  not  far  from  Bombay,  the  little  fellow 
trudging  over  the  ploughed  field,  with  his  hand  in  that 
of  the  native  husbandman,  called  back  to  her  in  the 
Hindustani,  which  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  English, 
"Good-by,  this  is  my  brother." 

In  187 1  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kipling  went  with  their  children 
to  England,  and  being  compelled  to  return  to  India  the 
next  year,  they  took  up  the  sorrow  common  to  Anglo- 
Indian  lives,  in  leaving  their  children  "at  home,"  in 
charge  of  friends  at  Southsea,  near  Portsmouth.  It  was 
a  hard  and  sad  experience  for  the  boy.  The  originality 
of  his  nature  and  the  independence  of  his  spirit  had  al- 
ready become  clearly  manifest,  and  were  likely  to  render 
him  unintelligible  and  perplexing  to  whosoever  might 
have  charge  of  him  unless  they  were  gifted  with  unusual 
perceptions  and  quick  sympathies.  Happily  his  mother's 
sister,  Mrs.  (now  Lady)  Burne- Jones,  was  near  at  hand, 
in  case  of  need,  to  care  for  him. 

In  the  sprmg  of  1877  Mrs.  Kipling  came  to  England 
to  see  her  children,  and  was  followed  the  next  year  by 
her  husband.  The  children  were  removed  from  South- 
sea,  and  Rudyard,  grown  into  a  companionable,  active- 
minded,  interesting  boy,  now  in  his  thirteenth  year,  had 
the  dehght  of  spending  some  weeks  in  Paris,  with  his 
father,  attracted  thither  by  the  exhibition  of  that  year. 


xiv  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

His  eyesight  had  been  for  some  time  a  source  of  trouble 
to  him,  and  the  relief  was  great  from  glasses,  which  were 
specially  fitted  to  his  eyes,  and  with  which  he  has  never 
since  been  able  to  dispense. 

On  the  return  of  his  parents  to  India,  early  in  1878, 
Rudyard  was  placed  at  the  school  of  Westward  Ho, 
at  Bideford,  in  Devon.  This  school  was  one  chiefly  in- 
tended for  the  sons  of  members  of  the  Indian  services, 
most  of  whom  were  looking  forward  to  following  their 
father's  career  as  servants  of  the  crown.  It  was  in 
charge  of  an  admirable  head-master,  Mr.  Cormell  Price, 
whose  character  was  such  that  he  won  tfie  affection  of 
his  boys  no  less  than  their  respect.  The  young  Kipling 
was  not  an  easy  boy  to  manage.  He  chose  his  own 
way.  His  talents  were  such  that  he  might  have  held 
a  place  near  the  highest  in  his  studies,  but  he  was  content 
to  let  others  surpass  him  in  lessons,  while  he  yielded  to 
his  genius  in  devoting  himself  to  original  composition 
and  to  much  reading  in  books  of  his  own  choice.  He  be- 
came the  editor  of  the  school  paper,  he  contributed  to  the 
columns  of  the  local  Bideford  Journal,  he  wrote  a  quan- 
tity of  verse,  and  was  venturesome  enough  to  send  a 
copy  of  verses  to  a  London  journal,  which,  to  his  infinite 
satisfaction,  was  accepted  and  published.  Some  of  his 
verses  were  afterward  collected  in  a  Httle  volume,  pri- 
vately printed  by  his  parents  at  Lahore,  with  the  title 
Schoolboy  Lyrics.  All  through  his  time  at  school  his 
letters  to  his  parents  in  India  were  such  as  to  make  it 
clear  to  them  that  his  future  lay  in  the  field  of  literature. 

His  literary  gifts  came  to  him  by  inheritance  from 
both  the  father  and  motiier,  and  they  were  nurtured  and 
cultivated  in  the  circle  of  relatives  and  family  friends 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xv 

with  whom  his  holidays  were  spent.  A  sub-master  at 
Westward  Ho,  though  little  satisfied  with  the  boy's 
progress  in  the  studies  of  the  school,  gave  to  him  the  lib- 
erty of  his  own  excellent  library.  The  holidays  were 
spent  at  the  Grange,  in  South  Kensington,  the  home  of 
his  aunt  and  uncle,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burne- Jones,  and  here 
he  came  under  the  happiest  possible  domestic  influences, 
and  was  brought  into  contact  with  men  of  highest  qual- 
ity, whose  lives  were  given  to  letters  and  the  arts,  especi- 
ally with  WilHam  Morris,  the  closest  intimate  of  the 
household  of  the  Grange.  Other  homes  were  open  to 
him  where  the  pervading  influence  was  that  of  intellect- 
ual pursuits,  and  where  he  had  access  to  libraries 
through  which  he  was  allowed  to  wander  and  to  browse 
at  his  will.  The  good  which  came  to  him,  directly  and 
indirectly,  from  these  opportunities  can  hardly  be  over- 
stated. To  know,  to  love,  and  to  be  loved  by  such  a 
man  as  Burne- Jones  was  a  supreme  blessing  in  his  life. 

In  the  autumn  of  1882,  having  finished  his  course  at 
school,  a  position  was  secured  for  him  on  the  Civil  and 
Military  Gazette,  Lahore,  and  he  returned  to  his  parents 
in  India,  who  had  meanwhile  removed  from  Bombay  to 
Lahore,  where  his  father  was  at  the  head  of  the  most  im- 
portant school  of  the  arts  in  India.  The  Civil  and  Mil- 
itary Gazette  is  the  chief  journal  of  northwestern  India, 
owned  and  conducted  by  the  managers  and  owners  of 
the  Allahabad  Pioneer,  the  ablest  and  most  influential 
of  all  Indian  newspapers  published  in  the  interior  of  the 
country. 

For  five  years  he  worked  hard  and  steadily  on  the 
Gazette.  Much  of  the  work  was  simple  drudgery. 
He  shirked  nothing.    The  editor-in-chief  was  a  some- 


xvi  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

what  grim  man,  who  believed  in  snubbing  his  subordi- 
nates, and  who,  though  he  recognised  the  talents  of  the 
**  clever  pup,"  as  he  called  him,  and  allowed  him  a  pretty 
free  hand  in  his  contributions  to  the  paper,  yet  was  in- 
clined to  exact  from  him  the  full  tale  of  the  heavy  routine 
work  of  a  newspaper  office. 

But  these  were  happy  years.  For  the  youth  was 
feeling  the  spring  of  his  own  powers,  was  full  of  interest 
in  nfe,  was  laying  up  stores  of  observation  and  expe- 
rience, and  found  in  his  own  home  not  only  domestic 
happiness,  but  a  s>Tnpathy  in  taste  and  a  variety  of 
talent  and  accomplishment  which  acted  as  a  continual 
stimulus  to  his  own  genius.  Father,  mother,  sister,  and 
brother  all  played  and  worked  together  with  rare  com- 
bination of  sympathetic  gifts.  In  1885  some  of  the 
verses  with  the  writing  of  which  he  and  his  sister  had 
amused  themselves  were  pubHshed  at  Lahore,  in  a  little 
volume  entitled  Echoes,  because  most  of  them  were 
lively  parodies  on  some  of  the  poems  of  the  popular 
poets  of  the  day.  The  little  book  had  its  moment  of 
narrowly  limited  success,  and  opened  the  way  for  the 
wider  notoriety  and  success  of  a  volume  into  which 
were  gathered  the  Departmental  Ditties  that  had  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  the  Gazette.  Many  of  the  stories 
also  which  were  afterward  collected  under  the  now 
familiar  title  of  Plain  Tales  from  tke  Hills  made  their 
first  appearance  in  the  Gazette,  and  attracted  wide  atten- 
tion in  the  Anglo-Indian  community. 

Kipling's  work  for  five  years  at  Lahore  had  indeed 
been  of  such  quality  that  it  was  not  surprising  that  he 
was  called  down  to  Allahabad,  in  1887,  to  take  a  place 
upon  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Pioneer.    The  training 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xvii 

of  an  Anglo-Indian  journalist  is  peculiar.  He  has  to 
master  knowledge  of  many  kinds,  to  become  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  affairs  of  the  English  administra- 
tion and  the  conditions  of  Anglo-Indian  life,  and  at  the 
same  time  with  the  interests,  the  modes  of  Hfe,  and 
thought  of  the  vast  underlying  native  population.  The 
higher  positions  in  Indian  journalism  are  places  of  gen- 
uine importance  and  of  large  emolument,  worthy  ob- 
jects of  ambition  for  a  young  man  conscious  of  literary 
faculty  and  inspired  with  zeal  for  public  ends. 

The  Pioneer  issued  a  weekly  as  well  as  a  daily  edition, 
and  in  addition  to  his  regular  work  upon  the  daily  paper, 
Kipling  continued  to  write  for  the  weekly  issue  stories 
similar  to  those  which  had  already  won  him  reputation, 
and  they  now  attracted  wider  attention  than  ever.  His 
home  at  Allahabad  was  with  Professor  Hill,  a  man  of 
science  attached  to  the  Allahabad  College.  But  the 
continuity  of  his  life  was  broken  by  various  journeys 
undertaken  in  the  interest  of  the  paper, — one  through 
Rajputana,  from  which  he  wrote  a  series  of  descriptive 
letters,  called  Letters  of  Marque;  another  to  Calcutta 
and  through  Bengal,  which  resulted  in  The  City  of  Dread- 
ful Night  and  other  letters  describing  the  little-known 
conditions  of  the  vast  presidency;  and,  finally,  in  1889, 
he  was  sent  off  by  the  Pioneer  on  a  tour  round  the  world, 
on  which  he  was  accompanied  by  his  friends,  Professor 
and  Mrs.  Hill.  Going  first  to  Japan,  he  thence  came  to 
America,  writing  on  the  way  and  in  America  the  letters 
which  appeared  in  the  Pioneer  under  the  title  of  From 
Sea  to  Sea;  and  in  September,  1889,  he  arrived  in  London. 

His  Indian  repute  had  not  preceded  him  to  such 
degree  as  to  make  the  way  easy  for  him  through  the 


xviii  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

London  crowd.  But  after  a  somewhat  dreary  winter, 
during  which  he  had  been  making  acquaintances  and 
had  found  irregular  employment  upon  newspapers  and 
magazines,  arrangements  were  made  with  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.  for  the  publication  of  an  edition  of  Plain 
Tales  from  the  Hills.  The  book  appeared  in  June. 
Its  success  was  immediate.  It  was  republished  at  once 
in  America,  and  was  welcomed  as  warmly  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic  as  on  the  other.  The  reprint  of  Kip- 
ling's other  Indian  stories  and  of  his  Departmental  Ditties 
speedily  followed,  together  with  the  new  tales  and 
poems  which  showed  the  wide  range  of  his  creative 
genius.  Each  volume  was  a  fresh  success;  each  extended 
the  circle  of  Mr.  Kipling's  readers,  till  now  he  is  the  most 
widely  known  of  English  authors.  The  list  which  fol- 
lows this  sketch  gives  the  dates  of  his  many  publications. 

In  1 89 1  Mr.  Kipling  left  England  for  a  long  voyage 
to  South  Africa,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  and  Ceylon, 
and  thence  to  visit  his  parents  at  Lahore.  On  his  re- 
turn to  England,  he  was  married  in  London  to  Miss 
Balestier,  daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  Wolcott  Balestier 
of  New  York.  Shortly  after  their  marriage,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Kipling  visited  Japan,  and  in  August  they  came 
to  America.  They  established  their  home  at  Brattle- 
boro,  Vermont,  where  Mrs.  Kipling's  family  had  a  large 
estate;  and  here,  in  a  pleasant  and  beautifully  situated 
house  which  they  had  built  for  themselves,  their  two 
eldest  children  were  born,  and  here  they  continued  to 
live  till  September,  1896. 

During  these  four  years,  Mr.  Kipling  made  three 
brief  visits  to  England  to  see  his  parents,  who  had  left 
India  and  were  now  settled  in  the  old  country. 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xix 

The  winuy  of  1897-98  was  spent  by  Mr.  Kipling 
and  his  family,  accompanied  by  his  father,  in  South 
Africa.  He  was  everywhere  received  with  the  utmost 
cordiality  and  friendliness. 

Returning  to  England  in  the  spring  of  1898,  he  took 
a  house  at  Rottingdean,  near  Brighton,  with  intention 
to  make  it  his  permanent  home. 

Of  the  late/  incidents  of  his  life  there  is  no  need  to 
speak. 


BOOKS  BY  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

Schoolboy  Lyrics  (privately  printed).     1882. 

Echoes  by  Two  Writers.     1884. 

Quartette.  The  Christmas  Annual  of  the  Civil  and  Military  Gazette 
by  Four  Anglo-Indian  Writers.    Lahore.     1885. 

On  Her  Majesty's  Service  Only.  Departmental  Ditties  and 
Other  Verses.  To  All  Heads  of  Departments  and  All  Anglo- 
Indians.  Rudyard  Kipling,  Assistant  Department  of  Public 
Journalism.    Lahore  District.     [1886.] 

Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.  By  Rudyard  Kipling,  author  of  "De- 
partmental Ditties  and  Other  Verses."     1888. 

Soldiers  Three,  A  Collection  of  Stories  Setting  Forth  Certain  Passage? 
in  the  Lives  and  Adventures  of  Private  Terence  Mulvaney,  Stanley 
Ortheris,  and  John  Learoyd.     1888. 

The  Story  or  the  Gadsbys.    [1888.] 

In  Black  and  White.     [1888.] 

Under  the  Deodars.     1888. 

The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  and  Other  Tales.    [1888.] 

Wee  Willie  Winkle  and  Other  Stories.    [1888.] 

Departmental  Ditties  and  Other  Verses.  By  Rudyard  Kipling. 
1 891. 

The  City  of  Dreadful  Night  and  Other  Places.    [1891.] 

Life's  Handicap,  being  Stories  of  Mine  Ows  People.    1891. 

Letters  of  Marque.     1891. 

The  Light  that  Failed,    i  89  i  . 

The  Naulahka  :  A  Story  of  West  and  East.  By  Rudyard  Elipling  and 
Wolcott  Balestier.     1892. 

Ballads  and  Barrack-room  Ballads.    1892. 

Many  Inventions.    1893. 

The  Jungle  Book.    By  Rudyard  Kipling.    1894. 

The  Second  Jungle  Book.    1895. 

The  Seven  Seas.    1896. 

Captains  Courageous.    1897.  .4 

The  Day's  Work.    1S98. 

A  Fleet  in  Being.    London.    1899. 

From  Sea  to  Sea.  Letters  of  Travel,  including  Letters  of  Marque,  City 
of  Dreadful  Night,  and  The  Smith  /idminisLratiou  New  York,   i S99. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 


LISPETH 

Look,  you  have  cast  out  Love!    What  Gods  are  th«se 

You  bid  me  please? 
The  Three  in  One,  the  One  in  Three?    Not  so ! 

To  my  own  Gods  I  go. 
It  may  be  they  shall  give  me  greater  ease 
Than  your  cold  Christ  and  tangled  Trinities. 

—The  Convert. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  Sonoo,  a  Hill-man  of  the 
Himalayas,  and  Jadeh  his  wife.  One  year  their  maize 
failed,  and  two  bears  spent  the  night  in  their  only  opium 
poppy-field  just  above  the  Sutlej  Valley  on  the  Kotgarh 
side;  so,  next  season,  they  turned  Christian,  and  brought 
their  baby  to  the  Mission  to  be  baptized.  The  Kotgarh 
Chaplain  christened  her  Elizabeth,  and  ^Lispeth'  is  the 
Hill  or  pahari  pronunciation. 

Later,  cholera  came  into  the  Kotgarh  Valley  and 
carried  off  Sonoo  and  Jadeh,  and  Lispeth  became  half 
servant,  half  companion,  to  the  wife  of  the  then  Chap- 
lain of  Kotgarh.  This  was  after  the  reign  of  the  Mo- 
ravian missionaries  in  that  place,  but  before  Kotgarh  had 
quite  forgotten  her  title  of  'Mistress  of  the  Northern 
Hills.' 

Whether  Christianity  improved  Lispeth,  or  whether 
the  gods  of  her  own  people  would  have  done  as  much 
for  her  under  any  circumstances,  I  do  not  know;  but 
she  grew  very  lovely.    When  a  Hill-girl  grows  lovely, 


4  PLiMN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

^  she  IS  worth  travelling  hfty  miles  over  bad  ground  to 
look  upon.    Lispeth  had  a  Greek  face — one  of  those 

"  faces  people  paint  so  often,  and  see  so  seldom.  She 
was  of  a  pale,  ivory  colour,  and,  for  her  race,  extremely 
tall.  Also,  she  possessed  eyes  that  were  wonderful; 
and,  had  she  not  been  dressed  in  the  abominable  print- 
cloths  affected  by  Missions,  you  would,  meeting  her  on 
the  hillside  unexpectedly,  have  thought  her  the  original 
Diana  of  the  Romans  going  out  to  slay. 

Lispeth  took  to  Christianity  readily,  and  did  not 
abandon  it  when  she  reached  womanhood,  as  do  some 
Hill-girls.  Her  own  people  hated  her  because  she  had, 
they  said,  become  a  white  woman  and  washed  herself 
daily;  and  the  Chaplain's  wife  did  not  know  what  to 
do  with  her.  One  cannot  ask  a  stately  goddess,  five 
foot  ten  in  her  shoes,  to  clean  plates  and  dishes.  She 
played  with  the  Chaplain's  children  and  took  classes 
in  the  Sunday  School,  and  read  all  the  books  in  the 
house,  and  grew  more  and  more  beautiful,  like  the  Prin- 
cess in  fairy  tales.  The  Chaplain's  wife  said  that  the 
girl  ought  to  take  service  in  Simla  as  a  nurse  or  some- 
thing 'genteel.'  But  Lispeth  did  not  want  to  take  ser- 
vice.    She  was  very  happy  where  she  was. 

When  travellers— there  were  not  many  in  those  years 
— came  in  to  Kotgarh,  Lispeth  used  to  lock  herself  into 
her  own  room  for  fear  they  might  take  her  away  to 
Simla,  or  out  into  the  unknown  world. 

One  day,  a  few  months  after  she  was  seventeen  years 
old,  Lispeth  went  out  for  a  walk.  She  did  not  walk  in 
the  manner  of  English  ladies— a  mile  and  a  half  out, 
with  a  carriage-ride  back  again.  She  covered  between 
twenty  and  thirty  miles  in  her  little  constitutionals^ 


LISPETH  5 

all  about  and  about,  between  Kotgarh  and  Narkunda. 
This  time  she  came  back  at  full  dusk,  stepping  down 
the  breakneck  descent  into  Kotgarh  with  something 
heavy  in  her  arms.  The  Chaplain's  wife  was  dozing 
in  the  drawing-room  when  Lispeth  came  in  breathing 
heavily  and  very  exhausted  with  her  burden.  Lispeth 
put  it  down  on  the  sofa,  and  said  simply,  'This  is  my 
husband.  I  found  him  on  the  Bagi  Road.  He  has  hurt 
himself.  We  will  nurse  him,  and  when  he  is  well,  your 
husband  shall  marry  him  to  me.' 

This  was  the  first  mention  Lispeth  had  ever  made 
of  her  matrimonial  views,  and  the  Chaplain's  wife 
shrieked  with  horror.  However,  the  man  on  the  sofa 
needed  attention  first.  He  was  a  young  Englishman, 
and  his  head  had  been  cut  to  the  bone  by  something 
jagged.  Lispeth  said  she  had  found  him  down  the 
hillside,  and  had  brought  him  in.  He  was  breathing 
queerly  and  was  unconscious. 

He  was  put  to  bed  and  tended  by  the  Chaplain,  who 
knew  something  of  medicine;  and  Lispeth  waited  outside 
the  door  in  case  she  could  be  useful.  She  explained  to 
the  Chaplain  that  this  was  the  man  she  meant  to  marry; 
and  the  Chaplain  and  his  wife  lectured  her  severely  on  the 
impropriety  of  her  conduct.  Lispeth  listened  quietly, 
and  repeated  her  first  proposition.  It  takes  a  great  deal 
of  Christianity  to  wipe  out  uncivilised  Eastern  instincts, 
such  as  falling  in  love  at  first  sight.  Lispeth,  having 
found  the  man  she  worshipped,  did  not  see  why  she  should 
keep  silent  as  to  her  choice.  She  had  no  intention  of 
being  sent  away,  either.  She  was  going  to  nurse  that 
Englishman  until  he  was  well  enough  to  marry  her. 
This  was  her  programme. 


6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

After  a  fortnight  of  slight  fever  and  inflanimation, 
the  Englishman  recovered  coherence  and  thanked  the 
Chaplain  and  his  wife,  and  Lispeth — especially  Lispeth 
— for  their  kindness.  He  was  a  traveller  in  the  East, 
he  said — they  never  talked  about  ^globe-trotters'  in 
those  days,  when  the  P.  &  0.  fleet  was  young  and  small 
— and  had  come  from  Dehra  Dun  to  hunt  for  plants 
and  butterflies  among  the  Simla  hills.  No  one  at  Simla, 
therefore,  knew  anything  about  him.  He  fancied  that 
he  must  have  fallen  over  the  cliff  while  reaching  out 
for  a  fern  on  a  rotten  tree-trunk,  and  that  his  coolies 
must  have  stolen  his  baggage  and  fled.  He  thought  he 
would  go  back  to  Simla  when  he  was  a  little  stronger. 
He  desired  no  more  mountaineering. 

He  made  small  haste  to  go  away,  and  recovered  his 
strength  slowly.  Lispeth  objected  to  being  advised 
either  by  the  Chaplain  or  his  wife;  therefore  the  latter 
spoke  to  the  Englishman,  and  told  him  how  matters 
stood  in  Lispeth's  heart.  He  laughed  a  good  deal,  and 
said  it  was  very  pretty  and  romantic,  but,  as  he  was 
engaged  to  a  girl  at  Home,  he  fancied  that  nothing 
would  happen.  Certainly  he  would  behave  with  dis- 
cretion. He  did  that.  Still  he  found  it  very  pleasant 
to  talk  to  Lispeth,  and  walk  with  Lispeth  and  say  nice 
things  to  her,  and  call  her  pet  names,  while  he  was  getting 
strong  enough  to  go  away.  It  meant  nothing  at  all  to 
him,  and  everything  in  the  world  to  Lispeth.  She  was 
very  happy  while  the  fortnight  lasted,  because  she  had 
found  a  man  to  love. 

Being  a  savage  by  birth,  she  took  no  trouble  to  hide 
her  feeUngs,  and  the  Englishman  was  amused.  When 
he  went  away,  Lispeth  walked  with  him  up  the  Hill  as 


LISPETH  7 

far  as  Narkunda,  very  troubled  and  very  miserable.  The 
Chaplain's  wife,  being  a  good  Christian  and  disliking 
anything  in  the  shape  of  fuss  or  scandal, — ^Lispeth  was 
beyond  her  management  entirely, — had  told  the  Eng- 
lishman to  tell  Lispeth  that  he  was  coming  back  to  marry 
her.  'She  is  but  a  child  you  know,  and,  I  fear,  at  heart 
a  heathen,'  said  the  Chaplain's  wife.  So  all  the  twelve 
miles  up  the  Hill  the  Englishman,  with  his  arm  round 
Lispeth's  waist,  was  assuring  the  girl  that  he  would  come 
back  and  marry  her;  and  Lispeth  made  him  promise  over 
and  over  again.  She  wept  on  the  Narkunda  Ridge  till 
he  had  passed  out  of  sight  along  the  Muttiani  path. 

Then  she  dried  her  tears  and  went  in  to  Kotgarh 
again,  and  said  to  the  Chaplain's  wife,  'He  will  come 
back  and  marry  me.  He  has  gone  to  his  own  people 
to  tell  them  so.'  And  the  Chaplain's  wife  soothed 
Lispeth  and  said,  'He  will  come  back.'  At  the  end 
of  two  months,  Lispeth  grew  impatient,  and  was  told 
that  the  Englishman  had  gone  over  the  seas  to  England. 
She  knew  where  England  was,  because  she  had  read 
little  geography  primers;  but,  of  course,  she  had  no 
conception  of  the  nature  of  the  sea,  being  a  Hill-girl. 
There  was  an  old  puzzle-map  of  the  World  in  the  house. 
Lispeth  had  played  with  it  when  she  was  a  child.  She 
unearthed  it  again,  and  put  it  together  of  evenings,  and 
cried  to  herself,  and  tried  to  imagine  where  her  English- 
man was.  As  she  had  no  ideas  of  distance  or  steam- 
boats, her  notions  were  somewhat  wild.  It  would  not 
have  made  the  least  difference  had  she  been  perfectly 
correct;  for  the  Englishman  had  no  intention  of  coming 
back  to  marry  a  Hill-girl.  He  forgot  all  about  her  by  the 
time  he  was  butterfly-hunting  in  Assam.    He  wrote  a 


S  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

book  on  the  East  afterwards.  Lispeth's  name  did  not 
appear  there. 

At  the  end  of  three  months,  Lispeth  made  daily 
pilgrimage  to  Narkunda  to  see  if  her  Englishman  was 
coming  along  the  road.  It  gave  her  comfort,  and  the 
Chaplain's  wife  finding  her  happier  thought  that  she 
was  getting  over  her  'barbarous  and  most  indelicate 
folly.'  A  Httle  later,  the  walks  ceased  to  help  Lispeth 
and  her  temper  grew  very  bad.  The  Chaplain's  wife 
thought  this  a  profitable  time  to  let  her  know  the  real 
state  of  affairs— that  the  Englishman  had  only  promised 
his  love  to  keep  her  quiet— that  he  had  never  meant 
anything,  and  that  it  was  wrong  and  improper  of  Lispeth 
to  think  of  marriage  with  an  EngHshman,  who  was  of  a 
superior  clay,  besides  being  promised  in  marriage  to  a 
girl  of  his  own  people.  Lispeth  said  that  all  this  was 
clearly  impossible  because  he  had  said  he  loved  her,  and 
the  Chaplain's  wife  had,  with  her  own  lips,  asserted  that 
the  Englishman  was  coming  back. 

'How  can  what  he  and  you  said  be  untrue?'  asked 
Lispeth. 

'We  said  it  as  an  excuse  to  keep  you  quiet,  child/ 
said  the  Chaplain's  wife. 

'Then  you  have  Hed  to  me,'  said  Lispeth,  'you  and 
he?' 

The  Chaplain's  wife  bowed  her  head,  and  said  nothing. 
Lispeth  was  silent,  too,  for  a  little  time;  then  she  went 
out  down  the  valley,  and  returned  in  the  dress  of  a  Hill- 
girl— infamously  dirty,  but  without  the  nose-stud  and 
ear-rings.  She  had  her  hair  braided  into  the  long  pigtail, 
helped  out  with  black  thread,  that  Hill-women  wear. 

'I  am  going  back  to  my  own  people,'  said  she.    'You 


LlSPETti  0 

have  killed  Lispeth.  There  is  only  left  old  Jadeh's 
daughter — the  daughter  of  a  pahari  and  the  servant  of 
Tarka  Devi.    You  are  all  liars,  you  English.' 

By  the  time  that  the  Chaplain's  wife  had  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  the  announcement  that  Lispeth  had 
Verted  to  her  mother's  gods,  the  girl  had  gone;  and  she 
never  came  back. 

She  took  to  her  own  unclean  people  savagely,  as  if 
to  make  up  the  arrears  of  the  life  she  had  stepped  out  of; 
and,  in  a  Httle  time,  she  married  a  woodcutter  who  beat 
her  after  the  manner  of  paharis,  and  her  beauty  faded 
soon. 

^  There  is  no  law  whereby  you  can  account  for  the 
vagaries  of  the  heathen,'  said  the  Chaplain's  wife,  'and 
I  believe  that  Lispeth  was  always  at  heart  an  infidel.' 
Seeing  she  had  been  taken  into  the  Church  of  England 
at  the  mature  age  of  five  weeks,  this  statement  does  not 
do  credit  to  the  Chaplain's  wife. 

Lispeth  was  a  very  old  woman  when  she  died.  She  had 
always  a  perfect  command  of  English,  and  when  she  was 
sufficiently  drunk,  could  sometimes  be  induced  to  tell  the 
story  of  her  first  love-affair. 

It  was  hard  then  to  realise  that  the  bleared,  wrinkled 
creature,  exactly  Hke  a  wisp  of  charred  rag  could  ever 
have  been  *  Lispeth  of  the  Kotgarh  Mission.' 


THREE  AND AN  EXTRA 

When  halter  and  heel-ropes  are  slipped,  do  not  give  chase  with  sticki 
but  with  gram. — Punjabi  Proverb. 

After  marriage  arrives  a  reaction,  sometimes  a  big, 
sometimes  a  little  one;  but  it  comes  sooner  or  later,  and 
must  be  tided  over  by  both  parties  if  they  desire  the  rest 
of  their  Hves  to  go  with  the  current. 

With  the  Cusack-Bremmils  this  reaction  did  not  set  in 
till  the  third  year  after  the  wedding.  Bremmil  was  hard 
to  hold  at  the  best  of  times;  but  he  was  a  good  husband 
until  the  baby  died  and  Mrs.  Bremmil  wore  black,  and 
grew  thin,  and  mourned  as  though  the  bottom  of  the 
Universe  had  fallen  out.  Perhaps  Bremmil  ought  to 
have  comforted  her.  He  tried  to  do  so,  but  the  more  he 
comforted,  the  more  Mrs.  Bremmil  grieved,  and,  con- 
sequently, the  more  uncomfortable  grew  Bremmil.  The 
fact  was  that  they  both  needed  a  tonic.  And  they  got  it. 
Mrs.  Bremmil  can  afford  to  laugh  now,  but  it  was  no 
laughing  matter  to  her  at  the  time. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  appeared  on  the  horizon;  and  where  she 
existed  was  fair  chance  of  trouble.  At  Simla  her  by- 
name was  the  'Stormy  Petrel.'  She  had  won  that  title 
five  times  to  my  own  certain  knowledge.  She  was  a  little, 
brown,  thin,  almost  skinny,  woman,  with  big,  rolling, 
violet-blue  eyes,  and  the  sweetest  manners  in  the  world. 
You  had  only  to  mention  her  name  at  afternoon  teas  foi 


THREE  AND AN  EXTRA  ii 

every  woman  in  the  room  to  rise  up,  and  call  her  not 
blessed.  She  was  clever,  witty,  brilliant,  and  sparkling 
beyond  most  of  her  kind;  but  possessed  of  many  devils  of 
malice  and  mischievousness.  She  could  be  nice,  though, 
even  to  her  own  sex.     But  that  is  another  story. 

Bremmil  went  off  at  score  after  the  baby's  death  and 
the  general  discomfort  that  followed,  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
annexed  him.  She  took  no  pleasure  in  hiding  her  cap- 
tives. She  annexed  him  publicly,  and  saw  that  the 
public  saw  it.  He  rode  with  her,  and  walked  with  her, 
and  talked  with  her,  and  picnicked  with  her,  and  tifhned 
at  PeHti's  with  her,  till  people  put  up  their  eyebrows  and 
said,  *  Shocking! '  Mrs.  Bremmil  stayed  at  home  turning 
over  the  dead  baby's  frocks  and  crying  into  the  empty 
cradle.  She  did  not  care  to  do  anything  else.  But  some 
eight  dear,  affectionate  lady-friends  explained  the  situ- 
ation at  length  to  her  in  case  she  should  miss  the  cream  of 
it.  Mrs.  Bremmil  listened  quietly,  and  thanked  them  for 
their  good  offices.  She  was  not  as  clever  as  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee, but  she  was  no  fool.  She  kept  her  own  counsel,  and 
did  not  speak  to  Bremmil  of  what  she  had  heard.  This  is 
worth  remembering.  Speaking  to,  or  crying  over,  a  hus- 
band never  did  any  good  yet. 

When  Bremmil  was  at  home,  which  was  not  often,  he 
was  more  affectionate  than  usual;  and  that  showed  his 
hand.  The  affection  was  forced  partly  to  soothe  his  own 
conscience  and  partly  to  soothe  Mrs.  Bremmil.  It  failed 
in  both  regards. 

Then  'the  A.-D.-C.  in^Waiting  was  commanded  by 
Their  Excellencies,  Lord  and  Lady  Lytton,  to  invite  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Cusack-Bremmil  to  Peterhoff  on  July  26  and 
9-30  p.  M.' — 'Dancing '  in  the  bottom-left-hand  corner. 


12  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

'I  can't  go/  said  Mrs.  Bremmil,  'it  is  too  soon  after 
poor  little  Florrie  .  .  .  but  it  need  not  stop  you, 
Tom.' 

She  meant  what  she  said  then,  and  Bremmil  said  that 
he  would  go  just  to  put  in  an  appearance.  Here  he  spoke 
the  thing  which  was  not;  and  Mrs.  Bremmil  knew  it.  She 
guessed — a  woman's  guess  is  much  more  accurate  than  a 
man's  certainty — that  he  had  meant  to  go  from  the  first, 
and  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  She  sat  down  to  think,  and  the 
outcome  of  her  thoughts  was  that  the  memory  of  a  dead 
child  was  worth  considerably  less  than  the  affections  of  a 
living  husband.  She  made  her  plan  and  staked  her  all 
upon  it.  In  that  hour  she  discovered  that  she  knew  Tom 
Bremmil  thoroughly,  and  this  knowledge  she  acted  on. 

'  Tom,'  said  she, '  I  shall  be  dining  out  at  the  Longmores* 
on  the  evening  of  the  26th.  You'd  better  dine  at  the 
Club.' 

This  saved  Bremmil  from  making  an  excuse  to  get  away 
and  dine  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  so  he  was  grateful,  and  felt 
small  and  mean  at  the  same  time — which  was  wholesome. 
Bremmil  left  the  house  at  five  for  a  ride.  About  half-past 
five  in  the  evening  a  large  leather-covered  basket  came  in 
from  Phelps's  for  Mrs.  Bremmil.  She  was  a  woman  who 
knew  how  to  dress;  and  she  had  not  spent  a  week  on 
designing  that  dress  and  having  it  gored,  and  hemmed, 
and  herring-boned,  and  tucked  and  rucked  (or  whatever 
the  terms  are),  for  nothing.  It  was  a  gorgeous  dress- 
slight  mourning.  I  can't  describe  it,  but  it  was  what  The 
Queen  calls  'a  creation' — a  thing  that  hit  you  straight  be- 
tween the  eyes  and  made  you  gasp.  She  had  not  much 
heart  for  what  she  was  going  to  do;  but  as  she  glanced  at 
the  long  mirror,  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 


THREE  AND AN  EXTRA  '13 

she  had  never  looked  so  well  in  her  life.    She  was  a  large 
blonde  and,  when  she  chose,  carried  herself  superbly. 

After  dinner  at  the  Longmores',  she  went  on  to  the 
dance — a  little  late — and  encountered  Bremmil  with  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  on  his  arm.  That  made  her  flush,  and  as 
the  men  crowded  round  her  for  dances  she  looked  magnifi- 
cent. She  filled  up  all  her  dances  except  three,  and  those 
she  left  blank.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  caught  her  eye  once;  and 
she  knew  it  was  war — real  war — between  them.  She 
started  handicapped  in  the  struggle,  for  she  had  ordered 
Bremmil  about  just  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world  too 
much;  and  he  was  beginning  to  resent  it.  Moreover,  he 
had  never  seen  his  wife  look  so  lovely.  He  stared  at  her 
from  doorways,  and  glared  at  her  from  passages  as  she 
went  about  with  her  partners ;  and  the  more  he  stared,  the 
more  taken  was  he.  He  could  scarcely  believe  that  this 
was  the  woman  with  the  red  eyes  and  the  black  stuff  gown 
who  used  to  weep  over  the  eggs  at  breakfast. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  did  her  best  to  hold  him  in  play,  but, 
after  two  dances,  he  crossed  over  to  his  wife  and  asked  for 
a  dance. 

*I'm  afraid  youVe  come  too  late,  Mister  Bremmil,'  she 
said,  with  her  eyes  twinkling. 

Then  he  begged  her  to  give  him  a  dance,  and,  as  a  great 
favour,  she  allowed  him  the  fifth  waltz.  Luckily  Five 
stood  vacant  on  his  programme.  They  danced  it  to- 
gether, and  there  was  a  Httle  flutter  round  the  room. 
Bremmil  had  a  sort  of  a  notion  that  his  wife  could  dance, 
but  he  never  knew  she  danced  so  divinely.  At  the  end  of 
that  waltz  he  asked  for  another — as  a  favour,  not  as  a 
right;  and  Mrs.  Bremmil  said, '  Show  me  your  programme^ 
dear! '    He  showed  it  as  a  naughty  little  schoolboy  hands 


U  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

up  contraband  sweets  to  a  master.  There  was  a  fair  sprink- 
ling of  *H'  on  it,  besides  ^H'  at  supper.  Mrs.  Bremmil 
said  nothing,  but  she  smiled  contemptuously,  ran  her 
pencil  through  Seven  and  Nine— two '  H's ' — and  returned 
the  card  with  her  own  name  written  above — a  pet  name 
that  only  she  and  her  husband  used.  Then  she  shook  her 
finger  at  him,  and  said  laughing, '  Oh,  you  silly,  silly  boy ! ' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  heard  that,  and — she  owned  as  much- 
felt  she  had  the  worst  of  it.  Bremmil  accepted  Seven  and 
Nine  gratefully.  They  danced  Seven,  and  sat  out  Nine  in 
one  of  the  little  tents.  What  Bremmil  said  and  what 
Mrs.  Bremmil  did  is  no  concern  of  any  one. 

When  the  band  struck  up  'The  Roast  Beef  of  Old 
England,'  the  two  went  out  into  the  verandah,  and  Brem- 
mil began  looking  for  his  wife's  dandy  (this  was  before 
'rickshaw  days)  while  she  went  into  the  cloak-room. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  came  up  and  said,  'You  take  me  in  to 
supper,  I  think,  Mr.  Bremmil? '  Bremmil  turned  red  and 
looked  foolish,  *  Ah — h'm !  I'm  going  home  with  my  wife, 
Mrs.  Hauksbee.  I  think  there  has  been  a  Httle  mistake.' 
Being  a  man,  he  spoke  as  though  Mrs.  Hauksbee  were 
entirely  responsible. 

Mrs.  Bremmil  came  out  of  the  cloak-room  in  a  swans- 
down  cloak  with  a  white  'cloud'  round  her  head.  She 
looked  radiant;  and  she  had  a  right  to. 

The  couple  went  off  into  the  darkness  together,  Brem- 
mil riding  very  close  to  the  dandy. 

Then  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  me — she  looked  a  trifle 
faded  and  jaded  in  the  lamplight— '  Take  my  word  for  it, 
the  silliest  woman  can  manage  a  clever  man;  but  it  needs 
a  very  clever  woman  to  manage  a  fool.' 

Then  we  went  in  to  supper. 


THROWN  AWAY 

And  some  are  sulky,  while  some  will  plunge. 

[So  ho  I    Steady  I    Stand  still,  you !] 
Some  you  must  gentle,  and  some  you  must  lunge. 

[There  !     There  I    Who  wants  to  kill  you  ?] 
Some — there  are  losses  in  every  trade — 
Will  break  their  hearts  ere  bitted  and  made, 
Will  fight  like  fiends  as  the  rope  cuts  hard, 
And  die  dumb-mad  in  the  breaking-yard. 

— Toolungala  Stockyard  Ck»rus. 

To  rear  a  boy  under  what  parents  call  the  '  sheltered  life 
system'  is,  if  the  boy  must  go  into  the  world  and  fend  for 
himself,  not  wise.  Unless  he  be  one  in  a  thousand  he  has 
certainly  to  pass  through  many  unnecessary  troubles; 
and  may,  possibly,  come  to  extreme  grief  simply  from  ig- 
norance of  the  proper  proportions  of  things. 

Let  a  puppy  eat  the  soap  in  the  bath-room  or  chew  a 
newly  blacked  boot.  He  chews  and  chuckles  until,  by  and 
by,  he  finds  out  that  blacking  and  Old  Brown  Windsor 
make  him  very  sick;  so  he  argues  that  soap  and  boots  are 
not  wholesome.  Any  old  dog  about  the  house  will  soon 
show  him  the  unwisdom  of  biting  big  dogs'  ears.  Being 
young,  he  remembers  and  goes  abroad,  at  six  months,  a 
well-mannered  Uttle  beast  with  a  chastened  appetite.  If 
he  had  been  kept  away  from  boots,  and  soap,  and  big 
dogs  till  he  came  to  the  trinity  full-grown  and  with  de- 
veloped teeth,  consider  how  fearfully  sick  and  thrashed  he 


x6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

would  be!  Apply  that  notion  to  the  'sheltered  life,'  and 
see  how  it  works.  It  does  not  sound  pretty,  but  it  is  the 
better  of  the  two  evils. 

There  was  a  Boy  once  who  had  been  brought  up  under 
the '  sheltered  life '  theory;  and  the  theory  killed  him  dead. 
He  stayed  with  his  people  all  his  days,  from  the  hour  he 
was  born  till  the  hour  he  went  into  Sandhurst  nearly  at  the 
top  of  the  list.  He  was  beautifully  taught  in  all  that  wins 
marks  by  a  private  tutor,  and  carried  the  extra  weight  of 
'never  having  given  his  parents  an  hour's  anxiety  in  his 
life.'  What  he  learnt  at  Sandhurst  beyond  the  regular 
routine  is  of  no  consequence.  He  looked  about  him,  and 
he  found  soap  and  blacking,  so  to  speak,  very  good.  He 
ate  a  Kttle,  and  came  out  of  Sandhurst  not  so  high  as  he 
went  in.  Then  there  was  an  interval  and  a  scene  with  his 
people,  who  expected  much  from  him.  Next  a  year  of 
living  unspotted  from  the  world  in  a  third-rate  dep6t 
battalion,  where  all  the  juniors  were  children  and  all  the 
seniors  old  women;  and  lastly  he  came  out  to  India,  where 
he  was  cut  off  from  the  support  of  his  parents,  and  had  no 
one  to  fall  back  on  in  time  of  trouble  except  himself. 

Now  India  is  a  place  beyond  aU  others  where  one  must 
not  take  things  too  seriously — the  mid-day  sun  always 
excepted.  Too  much  work  and  too  much  energy  kill  a 
man  just  as  effectively  as  too  much  assorted  vice  or  too 
much  drink.  Flirtation  does  not  matter,  because  every 
one  is  being  transferred  and  either  you  or  she  leave  the 
Station,  and  never  return.  Good  work  does  not  matter, 
because  a  man  is  judged  by  his  worst  output  and  another 
man  takes  all  the  credit  of  his  best  as  a  rule.  Bad  work 
does  not  matter,  because  other  men  do  worse  and  in- 
competents hang  on  longer  in  India  than  anywhere  else. 


THROWN  AWAY  17 

Amusements  do  not  matter,  because  you  must  repeat 
them  as  soon  as  you  have  accomplished  them  once,  and 
most  amusements  only  mean  trying  to  win  another 
person's  money.  Sickness  does  not  matter,  because  it's 
all  in  the  day's  work,  and  if  you  die,  another  man  takes 
over  your  place  and  your  office  in  the  eight  hours  between 
death  and  burial.  Nothing  matters  except  Home-fur- 
lough and  acting  allowances,  and  these  only  because  they 
are  scarce.  It  is  a  slack  country,  where  all  men  work  with 
imperfect  instruments;  and  the  wisest  thing  is  to  escape 
as  soon  as  ever  you  can  to  some  place  where  amusement  is 
amusement  and  a  reputation  worth  the  having. 

But  this  Boy — the  tale  is  as  old  as  the  Hills — came  out, 
and  took  all  things  seriously.  He  was  pretty  and  was 
petted.  He  took  the  pettings  seriously  and  fretted  over 
women  not  worth  saddling  a  pony  to  call  upon.  He  found 
his  new  free  life  in  India  very  good.  It  does  look  attrac- 
tive in  the  beginning,  from  a  subaltern's  point  of  view — all 
ponies,  partners,  dancing,  and  so  on.  He  tasted  it  as  the 
puppy  tastes  the  soap.  Only  he  came  late  to  the  eating, 
with  a  grown  set  of  teeth.  He  had  no  sense  of  balance — 
just  like  the  puppy — and  could  not  understand  why  he 
was  not  treated  with  the  consideration  he  received  under 
his  father's  roof.     This  hurt  his  feelings. 

He  quarrelled  with  other  boys  and,  being  sensitive  to 
the  marrow,  remembered  these  quarrels,  and  they  excited 
him.  He  found  whist  and  gymkhanas,  and  things  of  that 
kind  (meant  to  amuse  one  after  office)  good;  but  he  took 
them  seriously  too,  just  as  seriously  as  he  took  the  *head' 
that  followed  after  drink.  He  lost  his  money  over  whist 
and  g>Tnkhanas  because  they  were  new  to  him. 

He  took  his  losses  seriously,  and  wasted  as  much  energ> 


ig  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

and  interest  over  a  two-goldmohur  race  for  maiden  ekka- 
ponies  with  their  manes  hogged,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
Derby.  One  half  of  this  came  from  inexperience — much  as 
the  puppy  squabbles  with  the  corner  of  the  hearthrug — 
and  the  other  half  from  the  dizziness  bred  by  stumbling 
out  of  his  quiet  life  into  the  glare  and  excitement  of  a 
livelier  one.  No  one  told  him  about  the  soap  and  the 
blacking,  because  an  average  man  takes  it  for  granted  that 
an  average  man  is  ordinarily  careful  in  regard  to  them. 
It  was  pitiful  to  watch  The  Boy  knocking  himself  to 
pieces,  as  an  over-handled  colt  falls  down  and  cuts  him- 
self when  he  gets  away  from  the  groom. 

This  unbridled  license  in  amusements  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  breaking  line  for,  much  less  rioting  over,  en- 
dured for  six  months — all  through  one  cold  weather — and 
then  we  thought  that  the  heat  and  the  knowledge  of  hav- 
ing lost  his  money  and  health  and  lamed  his  horses  would 
sober  The  Boy  down,  and  he  would  stand  steady.  In 
ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  this  would  have  hap- 
pened. You  can  see  the  principle  working  in  any  Indian 
Station.  But  this  particular  case  fell  through  because 
The  Boy  was  sensitive  and  took  things  seriously — as  I 
may  have  said  some  seven  times  before.  Of  course,  we 
could  not  tell  how  his  excesses  struck  him  personally. 
They  were  nothing  very  heartbreaking  or  above  the 
average.  He  might  be  crippled  for  life  financially,  and 
want  a  little  nursing.  Still  the  memory  of  his  perform- 
ances would  wither  away  in  one  hot  weather,  and  the 
bankers  would  help  him  to  tide  over  the  money-troubles. 
But  he  must  have  taken  another  view  altogether  and  have 
believed  himself  ruined  beyond  redemption.  His  Colonel 
talked  to  him  severely  when  the  cold  weather  ended. 


THROWN  AWAY  ig 

That  made  him  more  wretched  than  ever;  and  it  was  only 
an  ordinary  'Colonel's  wigging'! 

What  follows  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  fashion  in 
which  we  are  all  linked  together  and  made  responsible  for 
one  another.  The  thing  that  kicked  the  beam  in  The 
Boy's  mind  was  a  remark  that  a  woman  made  when  he 
was  talking  to  her.  There  is  no  use  in  repeating  it,  for  it 
was  only  a  cruel  Httle  sentence,  rapped  out  before  think- 
ing, that  made  him  flush  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  He  kept 
himself  to  himself  for  three  days,  and  then  put  in  for  two 
days'  leave  to  go  shooting  near  a  Canal  Engineer's  Rest 
House  about  thirty  miles  out.  He  got  his  leave,  and  that 
night  at  Mess  was  noisier  and  more  offensive  than  ever. 
He  said  that  he  was  'going  to  shoot  big  game,'  and  left  at 
half-past  ten  o'clock  in  an  ekka.  Partridge — which  was 
the  only  thing  a  man  could  get  near  the  Rest  House — is 
not  big  game;  so  every  one  laughed. 

Next  morning  one  of  the  Majors  came  in  from  short 
leave  and  heard  that  The  Boy  had  gone  out  to  shoot  *big 
game.'  The  Major  had  taken  an  interest  in  The  Boy,  and 
had,  more  than  once,  tried  to  check  him.  The  Major  put 
up  his  eyebrows  when  he  heard  of  the  expedition,  and 
went  to  The  Boy's  rooms,  where  he  rummaged. 

Presently  he  came  out  and  found  me  leaving  cards  on 
the  Mess.   There  was  no  one  else  in  the  ante-room. 

He  said, '  The  Boy  has  gone  out  shooting.  Does  a  man 
shoot  tetur  with  a  revolver  and  writing-case? ' 

I  said,  'Nonsense,  Major!'  for  I  saw  what  was  in  his 
mind. 

He  said,  'Nonsense  or  no  nonsense,  I'm  going  to  the 
Canal  now — at  once.    I  don't  feel  easy.' 

Then  he  thought  for  a  minute,  and  said,  'Can  you  lie?* 


20  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

•You  know  best/  I  answered.     'It's  my  profession.' 

'Very  well,'  said  the  Major,  'you  must  come  out  with 
me  now — at  once — in  an  ekka  to  the  Canal  to  shoot  black- 
bu'^k.  Go  and  put  on  shikar-kit — quick — and  drive  here 
with  a  gun.' 

The  Major  was  a  masterful  man;  and  I  knew  that 
be  would  not  give  orders  for  nothing.  So  I  obeyed,  and 
en  return  found  the  Major  packed  up  in  an  ekka — gun- 
tases  and  food  slung  below — all  ready  for  a  shooting- 
trip. 

He  dismissed  the  driver  and  drove  himself.  We  jogged 
along  quietly  while  in  the  station;  but,  as  soon  as  we  got 
to  the  dusty  road  across  the  plains,  he  made  that  pony  fly. 
A  ».ountry-bred  can  do  nearly  anything  at  a  pinch.  We 
covered  the  thirty  miles  in  under  three  hours,  but  the 
poor  brute  was  nearly  dead. 

Once  I  said,  'What's  the  blazing  hurry,  Major?' 

He  said  quietly,  'The  Boy  has  been  alone,  by  himself 
for — one,  two,  five, — fourteen  hours  now!  I  tell  you,  I 
don't  feel  easy.' 

This  uneasiness  spread  itself  to  me,  and  I  helped  to  beat 
the  pony. 

When  we  came  to  the  Canal  Engineer's  Rest  House  the 
Major  called  for  The  Boy's  servant;  but  there  was  no 
answer.  Then  we  went  up  to  the  house,  calling  for  The 
Boy  by  name;  but  there  was  no  answer. 

'  Oh,  he's  out  shooting,'  said  I. 

Just  then,  I  saw  through  one  of  the  windows  a  little 
hurricane-lamp  burning.  This  was  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon. We  both  stopped  dead  in  the  verandah,  holding 
our  breath  to  catch  every  sound;  and  we  heard,  inside  the 
room,  the  'brr—brr — brr'  of  a  multitude  of  flies.     The 


THROWN  AWAY  9t 

Major  said  nothing,  but  he  took  off  his  hehnet  and  we 
entered  very  softly. 

The  Boy  was  dead  on  the  bed  in  the  centre  of  the  bare, 
lime- washed  room.  He  had  shot  his  head  nearly  to  pieces 
with  his  revolver.  The  gun-cases  were  still  strapped,  so 
was  the  bedding,  and  on  the  table  lay  The  Boy's  writing- 
case  with  photographs.  He  had  gone  away  to  die  like  a 
poisoned  rat! 

The  Major  said  to  himself  softly,  Toor  Boy!  Poor, 
poor  devil ! '  Then  he  turned  away  from  the  bed  and  said, 
*I  want  your  help  in  this  business.' 

Knowing  The  Boy  was  dead  by  his  own  hand,  I  saw 
exactly  what  that  help  would  be,  so  I  passed  over  to  the 
table,  took  a  chair,  Ht  a  cheroot,  and  began  to  go  through 
the  writing-case;  the  Major  looking  over  my  shoulder  and 
repeating  to  himself,  *We  came  too  late! — ^Like  a  rat  in 
a  hole! — Poor,  poor  devil!' 

The  Boy  must  have  spent  half  the  night  in  writing  to 
ois  people,  to  his  Colonel,  and  to  a  girl  at  Home;  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  finished,  must  have  shot  himseK,  for  he  had 
been  dead  a  long  time  when  we  came  in. 

I  read  all  that  he  had  written,  and  passed  over  each 
sheet  to  the  Major  as  I  finished  it. 

We  saw  from  his  accounts  how  very  seriously  he  had 
taken  everything.  He  wrote  about  'disgrace  which  he 
was  unable  to  bear' — 'indeHble  shame' — 'criminal  folly' 
— 'wasted  Hfe,'  and  so  on;  besides  a  lot  of  private  things 
to  his  father  and  mother  much  too  sacred  to  put  into 
print.  The  letter  to  the  girl  at  Home  was  the  most  pitiful 
of  all;  and  I  choked  as  I  read  it.  The  Major  made  no 
attempt  to  keep  dry-eyed.  I  respected  him  for  that.  He 
tead  and  rocked  himself  to  and  fro,  and  simply  cried  like  a 


t2  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS  3 

Vv'oman  without  trying  to  hide  it.  The  letters  were  so 
dreary  and  hopeless  and  touching.  We  forgot  all  about 
The  Boy's  follies,  and  only  thought  of  the  poor  Thing  on 
the  bed  and  the  scrawled  sheets  in  our  hands.  It  was  ut- 
terly impossible  to  let  the  letters  go  Home.  They  would 
have  broken  his  father's  heart  and  killed  his  mother  after 
killing  her  belief  in  her  son. 

At  last  the  Major  dried  his  eyes  openly,  and  said,  'Nice 
sort  of  thing  to  spring  on  an  English  family !  What  shall 
we  do? ' 

I  said,  knowing  what  the  Major  had  brought  me  out  for, 
— 'The  Boy  died  of  cholera.  We  were  with  him  at  the 
time.  We  can't  commit  ourselves  to  half-measures. 
Come  along.' 

Then  began  one  of  the  most  grimly  comic  scenes  I  have 
ever  taken  part  in — the  concoction  of  a  big,  written  lie, 
bolstered  with  evidence,  to  soothe  The  Boy's  people  at 
Home.  I  began  the  rough  draft  of  the  letter,  the  Major 
throwing  in  hints  here  and  there  while  he  gathered  up  all 
the  stuff  that  The  Boy  had  written  and  burnt  it  in  the 
fireplace.  It  was  a  hot,  still  evening  when  we  began,  and 
the  lamp  burned  very  badly.  In  due  course  I  made  the 
draft  to  my  satisfaction,  setting  forth  how  The  Boy  was 
the  pattern  of  all  virtues,  beloved  by  his  regiment,  with 
every  promise  of  a  great  career  before  him,  and  so  on; 
how  we  had  helped  him  through  the  sickness — it  was  no 
time  for  little  lies  you  will  understand — and  how  he  had 
died  without  pain.  I  choked  while  I  was  putting  down 
these  things  and  thinking  of  the  poor  people  who  would 
read  them.  Then  I  laughed  at  the  grotesqueness  of  the 
affair,  and  the  laughter  mixed  itself  up  with  the  choke — 
and  the  Major  said  that  we  both  wanted  drinks. 


THROWN  AWAY 


23 


I  am  afraid  to  say  how  much  whisky  we  drank  before 
the  letter  was  finished.  It  had  not  the  least  effect  on  us. 
Then  we  took  off  The  Boy's  watch,  locket,  and  rings. 

Lastly,  the  Major  said,  'We  must  send  a  lock  of  hair 
too.    A  woman  values  that.' 

But  there  were  reasons  why  we  could  not  find  a  lock  fit 
to  send.  The  boy  was  black-haired,  and  so  was  the  Major, 
luckily.  I  cut  off  a  piece  of  the  Major's  hair  above  the 
temple  with  a  knife,  and  put  it  into  the  packet  we  were 
making.  The  laughing-fit  and  the  chokes  got  hold  of  me 
again,  and  I  had  to  stop.  The  Major  was  nearly  as  bad; 
and  we  both  knew  that  the  worst  part  of  the  work  was  to 
come. 

We  sealed  up  the  packet,  photographs,  locket,  seals, 
ring,  letter,  and  lock  of  hair  with  The  Boy's  sealing-wax 
and  The  Boy's  seal. 

Then  the  Major  said,  '  For  God's  sake  let's  get  outside 
^— away  from  the  room — and  think! ' 

We  went  outside,  and  walked  on  the  banks  of  the  Canal 
for  an  hour,  eating  and  drinking  what  we  had  with  us, 
until  the  moon  rose.  I  know  now  exactly  how  a  murderer 
feels.  Finally,  we  forced  ourselves  back  to  the  room  with 
the  lamp  and  the  Other  Thing  in  it,  and  began  to  take  up 
the  next  piece  of  work.  I  am  not  going  to  write  about 
this.  It  was  too  horrible.  We  burned  the  bedstead  and 
dropped  the  ashes  into  the  Canal;  we  took  up  the  matting 
of  the  room  and  treated  that  in  the  same  way.  I  went  off 
to  a  village  and  borrowed  two  big  hoes, — I  did  not  want 
the  villagers  to  help, — while  the  Major  arranged — the 
other  matters.  It  took  us  four  hours'  hard  work  to  make 
the  grave.  As  we  worked,  we  argued  out  whether  it  was 
right  to  say  as  much  as  we  remembered  of  the  Burial  of 


24  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

the  Dead.  We  compromised  things  by  saying  the  Lord^a 
Prayer  with  a  private  unofficial  prayer  for  the  peace 
of  the  soul  of  The  Boy.  Then  we  filled  in  the  grave  and 
went  into  the  verandah — not  the  house — to  He  down  to 
sleep.    We  were  dead-tired. 

When  we  woke  the  Major  said  wearily,  'We  can't  go 
back  till  to-morrow.  We  must  give  him  a  decent  time  to 
die  in.  He  died  early  this  morning,  remember.  That 
seems  more  natural. '  So  the  Major  must  have  been  lying 
awake  all  the  time,  thinking. 

I  said,  'Then  why  didn't  we  bring  the  body  back  to 
cantonments? ' 

The  Major  thought  for  a  minute.  'Because  the  people 
bolted  when  they  heard  of  the  cholera.  And  the  ekka  has 
gone!' 

That  was  strictly  true.  We  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
ekka-i^ony,  and  he  had  gone  home. 

So  we  were  left  there  alone,  all  that  stifling  day,  in  the 
Canal  Rest  House,  testing  and  re-testing  our  story  of  The 
Boy's  death  to  see  if  it  was  weak  in  any  point.  A  native 
appeared  in  the  afternoon,  but  we  said  that  a  Sahih  was 
dead  of  cholera,  and  he  ran  away.  As  the  dusk  gathered, 
the  Major  told  me  all  his  fears  about  The  Boy,  and  awful 
stories  of  suicide  or  nearly  carried-out  suicide — tales  that 
made  one's  hair  crisp.  He  said  that  he  himself  had  once 
gone  into  the  same  Valley  of  the  Shadow  as  The  Boy, 
when  he  was  young  and  new  to  the  country;  so  he  under- 
stood how  things  fought  together  in  The  Boy's  pool 
jumbled  head.  He  also  said  that  youngsters,  in  their  re* 
pentant  moments,  consider  their  sins  much  more  serious 
and  ineffaceable  than  they  really  are.  We  talked  together 
all  through  the  evening  and  rehearsed  the  story  of  the 


THROWN  AWAY  25 

death  of  The  Boy.  As  soon  as  the  moon  was  up,  and  The 
Boy,  theoretically,  just  buried,  we  struck  across  coimtry 
for  the  Station.  We  walked  from  eight  till  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  but  though  we  were  dead-tired,  we  did  not 
forget  to  go  to  The  Boy's  rooms  and  put  away  his  revolver 
with  the  proper  amount  of  cartridges  in  the  pouch.  Also 
to  set  his  writing-case  on  the  table.  We  found  the  Colonel 
and  reported  the  death,  feeling  more  like  murderers  than 
ever.  Then  we  went  to  bed  and  slept  the  clock  round;  for 
there  was  no  more  in  us. 

The  tale  had  credence  as  long  as  was  necessary;  for 
every  one  forgot  about  The  Boy  before  a  fortnight  was 
over.  Many  people,  however,  found  time  to  say  that  the 
Major  had  behaved  scandalously  in  not  bringing  in  the 
body  for  a  regimental  funeral.  The  saddest  thing  of  all 
was  the  letter  from  The  Boy's  mother  to  the  Major  and  me 
— with  big  inky  bHsters  all  over  the  sheet.  She  wrote  the 
sweetest  possible  things  about  our  great  kindness,  and  the 
obligation  she  would  be  under  to  us  as  long  as  she  lived. 

All  things  considered,  she  was  under  an  obligation;  but 
not  exactly  as  she  meant. 


MISS  YOUGHAL'S  SAIS 

When  Man  and  Woman  are  agreed,  what  can  the  Kazi  do? 

— Proverb. 

Some  people  say  that  there  is  no  romance  in  India.  Those 
people  are  wrong.  Our  lives  hold  quite  as  much  romance 
as  is  good  for  us.     Sometimes  more. 

Strickland  was  in  the  Police,  and  people  did  not  under- 
stand him;  so  they  said  he  was  a  doubtful  sort  of  man,  and 
passed  by  on  the  other  side.  Strickland  had  himself  to 
thank  for  this.  He  held  the  extraordinary  theory  that  a 
Policeman  in  India  should  try  to  know  as  much  about  the 
natives  as  the  natives  themselves.  Now,  in  the  whole  of 
Upper  India,  there  is  only  one  man  who  can  pass  for 
Hindu  or  Mohammedan,  hide-dresser  or  priest,  as  he 
pleases.  He  is  feared  and  respected  by  the  natives  from 
the  Ghor  Kathri  to  the  Jamma  Musjid;  and  he  is  sup- 
posed to  have  the  gift  of  invisibility  and  executive  control 
over  many  Devils.  But  this  has  done  him  no  good  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Indian  Government. 

Strickland  was  foolish  enough  to  take  that  man  for  hia 
model;  and,  following  out  his  absurd  theory,  dabbled  in 
unsavoury  places  no  respectable  man  would  think  of  ex- 
ploring— all  among  the  native  riff-raff.  He  educated  him- 
self in  this  peculiar  way  for  seven  years,  and  people  could 
not  appreciate  it.  He  was  perpetually  'going  Fantee' 
among  natives,  which,  of  course,  no  man  with  any  sense 

26 


MISS  YOUGHAL*S  SAIS  27 

believes  in.  He  was  initiated  into  the  Sat  Bhai  at  Allaha- 
bad  once,  when  he  was  on  leave;  he  knew  the  Lizzard 
Song  of  the  Sansis,  and  the  Hdlli-Hukk  dance,  which  is  a 
religious  can-can  of  a  startling  kind.  When  a  man  knows 
who  dance  the  Hdlli-Hukk,  and  how,  and  when,  and 
where,  he  knows  something  to  be  proud  of.  He  has  gone 
deeper  than  the  skin.  But  Strickland  was  not  proud, 
though  he  had  helped  once,  at  Jagadhri,  at  the  Painting 
of  the  Death  Bull,  which  no  EngHshman  must  even  look 
upon;  had  mastered  the  thieves'-patter  of  the  chdngars; 
had  taken  a  Eusufzai  horse- thief  alone  near  Attock;  and 
had  stood  under  the  sounding-board  of  a  Border  mosque 
and  conducted  service  in  the  manner  of  a  Sunni  MoUah. 
His  crowning  achievement  was  spending  eleven  days 
as  a  faquir  or  priest  in  the  gardens  of  Baba  Atal  at 
Amritsar,  and  there  picking  up  the  threads  of  the  great 
Nasiban  Murder  Case.  But  people  said,  justly  enough, 
'Why  on  earth  can't  Strickland  sit  in  his  ofhce  and 
write  up  his  diary,  and  recruit,  and  keep  quiet,  instead 
of  showing  up  the  incapacity  of  his  seniors?^  So  the 
Nasiban  Murder  Case  did  him  no  good  departmentally; 
but,  after  his  first  feeling  of  wrath,  he  returned  to  his 
outlandish  custom  of  prying  into  native  life.  When 
a  man  once  acquires  a  taste  for  this  particular  amuse- 
ment, it  abides  with  him  all  his  days.  It  is  the  most 
fascinating  thing  in  the  world;  Love  not  excepted. 
Where  other  men  took  ten  days  to  the  Hills,  Strickland 
took  leave  for  what  he  called  shikar,  put  on  the  disguise 
that  appealed  to  him  at  the  time,  stepped  down  into  the 
brown  crowd,  and  was  swallowed  up  for  a  while.  He 
was  a  quiet,  dark  yoimg  feUow — spare,  black-eyed — 
and,  when  he  was  not  thinking  of  something  else,  a  very 


s8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

interesting  companion .  S trickland  on  Native  Progress  as 
he  had  seen  it  was  worth  hearing.  Natives  hated  Strick- 
land ;  but  they  were  afraid  of  him.    He  knew  too  much. 

When  the  Youghals  came  into  the  station,  Strick- 
land— very  gravely,  as  he  did  everything — fell  in  love 
with  Miss  Youghal;  and  she,  after  a  while,  feU  in  love 
with  him  because  she  could  not  understand  him.  Then 
Strickland  told  the  parents;  but  Mrs.  Youghal  said 
she  was  not  going  to  tlirow  her  daughter  into  the  worst 
paid  Department  in  the  Empire,  and  old  Youghal  said, 
in  so  many  words,  that  he  mistrusted  Strickland's  ways 
and  works,  and  would  thank  him  not  to  speak  or  write 
to  his  daughter  any  more.  'Very  weU,'  said  Strickland, 
for  he  did  not  wish  to  make  his  lady-love's  life  a  burden. 
After  one  long  talk  with  Miss  Youghal  he  dropped  the 
business  entirely. 

The  Youghals  went  up  to  Simla  in  April. 

In  July  Strickland  secured  three  months'  leave  on 
'urgent  private  affairs.'  He  locked  up  his  house — 
though  not  a  native  in  the  Province  would  wittingly 
have  touched  'Estreekin  Sahib's'  gear  for  the  world— 
and  went  down  to  see  a  friend  of  his,  an  old  dyer,  at 
Tarn  Taran. 

Here  all  trace  of  him  was  lost,  until  a  sais  or  groom  met 
me  on  the  Simla  Mall  with  this  extraordinary  note:— 

Dear  old  Man, — Please  give  bearer  a  box  of  cheroots — Supers,  No.  i, 
for  preference.  They  are  freshest  at  the  Club.  I'll  repay  when  I  re- 
apper*-:  but  at  present  I'm  out  of  society.— Yours, 

E.  Strickland. 

I  Oi-dered  two  boxes,  and  handed  them  over  to  the 
sais  with  my  love.    That  sais  was  Strickland,  and  he 


MISS  YOUGHAL'S  SAIS  99 

v^as  in  old  YoughaFs  employ,  attached  to  Miss  You^ 
ghal's  Arab.  The  poor  fellow  was  suffering  for  an  English 
smoke,  and  knew  that,  whatever  happened,  I  should  hold 
my  tongue  till  the  business  was  over. 

Later  on,  Mrs.  Youghal,  who  was  wrapped  up  in 
her  servants,  began  talking  at  houses  where  she  called  of 
her  paragon  among  saises — the  man  who  was  never 
too  busy  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  pick  flowers  for 
the  breakfast-table,  and  who  blacked — actually  blacked 
— the  hoofs  of  his  horse  like  a  London  coachman  I  The 
turn-out  of  Miss  Youghal's  Arab  was  a  wonder  and  a  de- 
light. Strickland — Dulloo,  I  mean — found  his  reward 
in  the  pretty  things  that  Miss  Youghal  said  to  him  when 
she  went  out  riding.  Her  parents  were  pleased  to  find 
she  had  forgotten  all  her  foolishness  for  young  Strickland, 
ind  said  she  was  a  good  girl. 

Strickland  vows  that  the  two  months  of  his  service 
were  the  most  rigid  mental  discipline  he  has  ever  gone 
through.  Quite  apart  from  the  little  fact  that  the  wife 
of  one  of  his  idiow-saises  fell  in  love  with  him  and  then 
tried  to  poison  him  with  arsenic  because  he  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  her,  he  had  to  school  himself  into  keep- 
mg  quiet  when  Miss  Youghal  went  out  riding  with  some 
man  who  tried  to  flirt  with  her,  and  he  was  forced  to  trot 
behind  carrying  the  blanket  and  hearing  every  word! 
Also,  he  had  to  keep  his  temper  when  he  was  slanged  in 
the  theatre  porch  by  a  poHceman — especially  once  when 
he  was  abused  by  a  Naik  he  had  himself  recruited 
from  Isser  Jang  village — or,  worse  still,  when  a  young 
subaltern  called  him  a  pig  for  not  making  way  quickly 
enough. 

But  the  life  had  its  compensations.    He  obtained 


3©  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

great  insight  into  the  ways  and  thefts  of  saises — enough 
he  says  to  have  siunmarily  convicted  half  the  population 
of  the  Punjab  if  he  had  been  on  business.  He  became 
one  of  the  leading  players  at  knuckle-bones,  which  all 
jhampdnis  and  many  saises  play  while  they  are  waiting 
outside  the  Government  House  or  the  Gaiety  Theatre  of 
nights;  he  learned  to  smoke  tobacco  that  was  three- 
fourths  cowdung;  and  he  heard  the  wisdom  of  the  griz- 
zled Jemadar  of  the  Government  House  grooms.  Whose 
words  are  valuable.  He  saw  many  things  which  amused 
him;  and  he  states,  on  honour,  that  no  man  can 
appreciate  Simla  properly  till  he  has  seen  it  from  the 
sais's  point  of  view.  He  also  says  that,  if  he  chose 
to  write  all  he  saw,  his  head  would  be  broken  in  several 
places. 

Strickland's  account  of  the  agony  he  endured  on 
wet  nights,  hearing  the  music  and  seeing  the  Kghts 
in  'Benmore,'  with  his  toes  tingling  for  a  waltz  and 
his  head  in  a  horse-blanket,  is  rather  amusing.  One  of 
these  days,  Strickland  is  going  to  write  a  little  book 
on  his  experiences.  That  book  will  be  worth  buying, 
and  even  more  worth  suppressing. 

Thus,  he  served  faithfully  as  Jacob  served  for  Rachel; 
and  his  leave  was  nearly  at  an  end  when  the  explosion 
came.  He  had  really  done  his  best  to  keep  his  temper 
in  the  hearing  of  the  flirtations  I  have  mentioned;  but 
he  broke  down  at  last.  An  old  and  very  distinguished 
General  took  Miss  Youghal  for  a  ride,  and  began  that 
specially  offensive  'you're-only-a-little-girl'  sort  of  flirta- 
tion— most  difficult  for  a  woman  to  turn  aside  deftly, 
and  most  maddening  to  Us  ten  to.  Miss  Youghal  was 
shaking  with  fear  at  the  things  he  said  in  the  hearing  of 


MISS  YOUGHAL'S  SAIS  31 

her  sais.  DuUoo — Strickland — stood  it  as  long  as  he 
could.  Then  he  caught  hold  of  the  General's  bridle, 
and,  in  most  fluent  EngHsh,  invited  him  to  step  off  and 
be  flung  over  the  cliff.  Next  minute,  Miss  Youghal 
began  to  cry;  and  Strickland  saw  that  he  had  hopelessly 
given  himself  away,  and  everything  was  over. 

The  General  nearly  had  a  fit,  while  Miss  Youghal 
was  sobbing  out  the  story  of  the  disguise  and  the  en- 
gagement that  was  not  recognised  by  the  parents. 
Strickland  was  furiously  angry  with  himself,  and  more 
angry  with  the  General  for  forcing  his  hand;  so  he  said 
nothing,  but  held  the  horse's  head  and  prepared  to 
thrash  the  General  as  some  sort  of  satisfaction.  But 
when  the  General  had  thoroughly  grasped  the  story, 
and  knew  who  Strickland  was,  he  began  to  puff  and 
blow  in  the  saddle,  and  nearly  rolled  off  with  laughing. 
He  said  Strickland  deserved  a  V.  C,  if  it  were  only  foi 
putting  on  a  sais's  blanket.  Then  he  called  himself 
names,  and  vowed  that  he  deserved  a  thrashing,  but  he 
was  too  old  to  take  it  from  Strickland.  Then  he  com- 
plimented Miss  Youghal  on  her  lover.  The  scandal  of 
the  business  never  struck  him;  for  he  was  a  nice  old 
man,  with  a  weakness  for  flirtations.  Then  he  laughed 
again,  and  said  that  old  Youghal  was  a  fool.  Strick- 
land let  go  of  the  cob's  head,  and  suggested  that  the 
General  had  better  help  them,  if  that  was  his  opinion. 
Strickland  knew  Youghal' s  weakness  for  men  with  titles 
and  letters  after  their  names  and  high  official  position. 
'It's  rather  like  a  forty-minute  farce,'  said  the  General, 
'but,  begad,  I  will  help,  if  it's  only  to  escape  that  tremen- 
dous thrashing  I  deserve.  Go  along  to  your  home,  my 
5aw-Policeman,  and  change  into  decent  kit,  and  I'll 


32  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

attack  Mr.  Youghal.    Miss  Youghal,  may  I  ask  you  tA 
canter  home  and  wait? ' 


About  seven  minutes  later,  there  was  a  wild  hurroosh 
at  the  Club.  A  sais,  with  blanket  and  headrope,  was 
asking  all  the  men  he  knew:  'For  Heaven's  sake  lend 
me  decent  clothes!'  As  the  men  did  not  recognise  him, 
there  were  some  pecuHar  scenes  before  Strickland 
could  get  a  hot  bath,  with  soda  in  it,  in  one  room,  a 
shirt  here,  a  collar  there,  a  pair  of  trousers  elsewhere,  and 
so  on.  He  galloped  off,  with  half  the  Club  wardrobe 
on  his  back,  and  an  utter  stranger's  pony  under  him,  to 
the  house  of  old  Youghal.  The  General,  arrayed  in  pur- 
ple and  fine  Unen,  was  before  him.  What  the  General 
had  said  Strickland  never  knew,  but  Youghal  received 
Strickland  with  moderate  civility;  and  Mrs.  Youghal, 
touched  by  the  devotion  of  the  transformed  Dulloo,  was 
almost  kind.  The  General  beamed  and  chuckled,  and 
Miss  Youghal  came  in,  and,  almost  before  old  Youghal 
knew  where  he  was,  the  parental  consent  had  been 
wrenched  out,  and  Strickland  had  departed  with  Miss 
Youghal  to  the  Telegraph  Office  to  wire  for  his  European 
kit.  The  final  embarrassment  was  when  the  stranger 
attacked  him  on  the  Mall  and  asked  for  the  stolen  pony. 

In  the  end,  Strickland  and  Miss  Youghal  were  mar- 
ried, on  the  strict  imderstanding  that  Strickland  should 
drop  his  old  ways,  and  stick  to  Departmental  routine, 
which  pays  best  and  leads  to  Simla.  Strickland  was 
far  too  fond  of  his  wife,  just  then,  to  break  his  word,  but 
it  was  a  sore  trial  to  him;  for  the  streets  and  the  bazars, 
and  tht  soimds  in  them,  were  full  of  meaning  to  Strick- 


MISS  YOUGHAL'S  SAIS  33 

land,  and  these  called  to  him  to  come  back  and  take 
up  his  wanderings  and  his  discoveries.  Some  day,  I 
will  tell  you  how  he  broke  his  promise  to  help  a  friend. 
That  was  long  since,  and  he  has,  by  this  time,  been  nearly 
spoilt  for  what  he  would  call  shikar.  He  is  forgetting  the 
slang,  and  the  beggar's  cant,  and  the  marks,  and  the 
signs,  and  the  drift  of  the  under-currents,  which,  if  a 
man  would  master,  he  must  always  continue  to  learn. 
But  he  fills  in  his  Departmental  returns  beautifully. 


*  YOKED  WITH  AN  UNBELIEVER' 

I  am  dying  for  you,  and  you  are  dying  for  another. 

— Punjabi  Proverb. 

When  the  Gravesend  tender  left  the  P.  &  O.  steamer 
for  Bombay  and  went  back  to  catch  the  train  to  Town, 
there  were  many  people  in  it  crying.  But  the  one 
who  wept  most,  and  most  openly,  was  Miss  Agnes. 
Laiter.  She  had  reason  to  cry,  because  the  only  man 
she  ever  loved — or  ever  could  love,  so  she  said — was 
going  out  to  India;  and  India,  as  every  one  knows,  is 
divided  equally  between  jungle,  tigers,  cobras,  cholera, 
and  sepoys. 

Phil  Garron,  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  steamer 
in  the  rain,  felt  very  unhappy  too;  but  he  did  not  cry. 
He  was  sent  out  to  'tea.'  What  'tea'  meant  he  had 
not  the  vaguest  idea,  but  fancied  that  he  would  have  to 
ride  on  a  prancing  horse  over  hiUs  covered  with  tea- vines, 
and  draw  a  sumptuous  salary  for  doing  so;  and  he  was 
very  grateful  to  his  imcle  for  getting  hun  the  berth.  He 
was  really  going  to  reform  all  his  slack,  shiftless  ways, 
save  a  large  proportion  of  his  magnificent  salary  yearly, 
and,  m  a  very  short  time,  return  to  marry  Agnes  Laiter. 
Phil  Garron  had  been  lying  loose  on  his  friends'  hands  for 
three  years,  and,  as  he  had  nothmg  to  do,  he  naturally 
fell  in  love.  He  was  very  nice;  but  he  was  not  strong  in 
his  views  and  opinions  and  principles,  and  though  he 

34 


*YOKED  WITH  AN  UNBELIEVER'  35 

never  came  to  actual  grief  his  friends  were  thankful 
when  he  said  good-bye,  and  went  out  to  this  mysterious 
*  tea '  business  near  Darjiling.  They  said,  ^  God  bless  you, 
dear  boy!  Let  us  never  see  your  face  again,' — or  at 
least  that  was  what  Phil  was  given  to  understand. 

When  he  sailed,  he  was  very  full  of  a  great  plan  to 
prove  himself  several  hundred  times  better  than  any 
one  had  given  him  credit  for — to  work  like  a  horse, 
and  triumphantly  marry  Agnes  Laiter.  He  had  many 
good  points  besides  his  good  looks;  his  only  fault  being 
that  he  was  weak,  the  least  Httle  bit  in  the  world  weak. 
He  had  as  much  notion  of  economy  as  the  Morning  Sun; 
and  yet  you  could  not  lay  your  hand  on  any  one  item, 
and  say,  ^Herein  Phil  Garron  is  extravagant  or  reckless.* 
Nor  could  you  point  out  any  particular  vice  in  his  char- 
acter; but  he  was  ^unsatisfactory'  and  as  workable  as 
putty. 

Agnes  Laiter  went  about  her  duties  at  home — her 
family  objected  to  the  engagement — with  red  eyes,  while 
Phil  was  sailing  to  Darjiling — a  'port  on  the  Bengal 
Ocean,'  as  his  mother  used  to  tell  her  friends.  He  was 
popular  enough  on  board  ship,  made  many  acquaintances 
and'a  moderately  large  Kquor-bill,  and  sent  off  huge  letters 
to  Agnes  Laiter  at  each  port.  Then  he  fell  to  work  on  this 
plantation,  somewhere  between  Darjiling  and  Kangra, 
and,  though  the  salary  and  the  horse  and  the  work  were 
not  quite  all  he  had  fancied,  he  succeeded  fairly  well,  and 
gave  himself  much  unnecessary  credit  for  his  persever- 
ance. 

In  the  course  of  time,  as  he  settled  more  into  collar,  and 
his  work  grew  fixed  before  him,  the  face  of  Agnes  Laiter 
went  out  of  his  mind  and  only  came  when  he  was  at 


36  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

leisure,  which  was  not  often.  He  would  forget  all  about 
ier  for  a  fortnight,  and  remember  her  with  a  start,  like  a 
schoolboy  who  has  forgotten  to  learn  his  lesson.  She  did 
not  forget  Phil,  because  she  was  of  the  kind  that  never 
forgets.  Only,  another  man — a  really  desirable  young 
man — presented  himself  before  Mrs.  Laiter;  and  the 
chance  of  a  marriage  with  Phil  was  as  far  off  as  ever;  and 
his  letters  were  so  unsatisfactory;  and  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  domestic  pressure  brought  to  bear  on  the  girl; 
and  the  young  man  really  was  an  eHgible  person  as  in- 
comes go;  and  the  end  of  all  things  was  that  Agnes 
married  him,  and  wrote  a  tempestuous  whirlwind  of  a 
letter  to  Phil  in  the  wilds  of  Darjiling,  and  said  she  should 
never  know  a  happy  moment  all  the  rest  of  her  life.  Which 
was  a  true  prophecy. 

Phil  received  that  letter,  and  held  himself  ill-treated. 
This  was  two  years  after  he  had  come  out;  but  by  dint  of 
thinking  fixedly  of  Agnes  Laiter,  and  looking  at  her 
photograph,  and  patting  himself  on  the  back  for  being 
one  of  the  most  constant  lovers  in  history,  and  warming 
to  the  work  as  he  went  on,  he  really  fancied  that  he  had 
been  very  hardly  used.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  one  final 
letter— a  really  pathetic  'world  without  end,  amen,'  epis- 
tle; explaining  how  he  would  be  true  to  Eternity,  and  that 
all  women  were  very  much  alike,  and  he  would  hide 
his  broken  heart,  etc.  etc.;  but  if,  etc.  etc.,  at  any 
future  time,  etc.  etc.,  he  could  afford  to  wait,  etc.  etc., 
unchanged  affections,  etc.  etc.,  return  to  her  old  love,  etc. 
etc.,  for  eight  closely  written  pages.  From  an  artistic 
point  of  view,  it  was  very  neat  work,  but  an  ordinary 
Philistine,  who  knew  the  state  of  Phil's  real  feelings,— not 
the  ones  he  rose  to  as  he  went  on  writing,— would  have 


*  YOKED  WITH  AN  UNBELIEVER'  37 

called  it  the  thoroughly  mean  and  selfish  work  of  a  thor- 
oughly mean  and  selfish  weak  man.  But  this  verdict 
would  have  been  incorrect.  Phil  paid  for  the  postage, 
and  felt  every  word  he  had  written  for  at  least  two  days 
and  a  half.  It  was  the  last  flicker  before  the  light  went  out. 

That  letter  made  Agnes  Laiter  very  imhappy,  and  she 
cried  and  put  it  away  in  her  desk,  and  became  Mrs.  Some- 
body Else  for  the  good  of  her  family.  Which  is  the  first 
duty  of  every  Christian  maid. 

Phil  went  his  ways,  and  thought  no  more  of  his  letter, 
except  as  an  artist  thinks  of  a  neatly  touched-in  sketch. 
His  ways  were  not  bad,  but  they  were  not  altogether  good 
until  they  brought  him  across  Dunmaya,  the  daughter  of  a 
Rajput  ex-Subadar-Major  of  our  Native  Army.  The 
girl  had  a  strain  of  Hill  blood  in  her,  and,  like  the  Hill- 
women,  was  not  a  purdah-nashin  or  woman  who  lives  be- 
hind the  veil.  Where  Phil  met  her,  or  how  he  heard  of  her, 
does  not  matter.  She  was  a  good  girl  and  handsome,  and, 
in  her  way,  very  clever  and  shrewd;  though,  of  course,  a 
little  hard.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  Phil  was  living 
very  comfortably,  denying  himself  no  small  luxury,  never 
putting  by  a  penny,  very  satisfied  with  himself  and  his 
good  intentions,  was  dropping  all  his  English  correspond- 
ents one  by  one,  and  beginning  more  and  more  to  look 
upon  India  as  his  home.  Some  men  fall  this  way;  and 
they  are  of  no  use  afterwards.  The  climate  where  he 
was  stationed  was  good,  and  it  really  did  not  seem  to  him 
that  there  was  any  reason  to  return  to  England. 

He  did  what  many  planters  have  done  before  him — that 
is  to  say,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  a  Hill-girl  and 
settle  down.  He  was  seven-and-twenty  then,  with  a  long 
life  before  him,  but  no  spirit  to  go  through  with  it.    So  he 


38  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

married  Dunmay  a  by  the  forms  of  the  English  Church,  and 
some  fellow-planters  said  he  was  a  fool,  and  some  said  he 
was  a  wise  man.  Dunmaya  was  a  thoroughly  honest 
girl,  and,  in  spite  of  her  reverence  for  an  Englishman,  had 
a  reasonable  estimate  of  her  husband's  weaknesses.  She 
managed  him  tenderly,  and  became,  in  less  than  a  year,  a 
very  passable  imitation  of  an  English  lady  in  dress  and 
carriage.  It  is  curious  to  think  that  a  Hill-man  after  a 
lifetime's  education  is  a  Hill-man  still;  but  a  Hill- woman 
can  in  six  months  master  most  of  the  ways  of  her  English 
sisters.  There  was  a  coolie-woman  once.  But  that  is  an- 
other story.  Dunmaya  dressed  by  preference  in  black 
and  yellow  and  looked  well. 

Meantime  Phil's  letter  lay  in  Agnes  Laiter's  desk,  and 
now  and  again  she  would  think  of  poor,  resolute,  hard- 
working Phil  among  the  cobras  and  tigers  of  Darjiling, 
toiling  in  the  vain  hope  that  she  might  come  back  to  him. 
Her  husband  was  worth  ten  Phils,  except  that  he  had 
rheumatism  of  the  heart.  Three  years  after  he  was 
married, — and  after  he  had  tried  Nice  and  Algeria  for  his 
complaint, — he  went  to  Bombay,  where  he  died,  and  set 
Agnes  free.  Being  a  devout  woman,  she  looked  on  his 
death  and  the  place  of  it  as  a  direct  interposition  of  Provi- 
ence,  and  when  she  had  recovered  from  the  shock,  she 
took  out  and  re-read  Phil's  letter  with  the  ^etc.  etc.,'  and 
the  big  dashes,  and  the  Httle  dashes,  and  kissed  it  several 
times.  No  one  knew  her  in  Bombay;  she  had  her  hus- 
band's income,  which  was  a  large  one,  and  Phil  was  close 
at  hand.  It  was  wrong  and  improper,  of  course,  but  she 
decided,  as  heroines  do  in  novels,  to  find  her  old  lover,  to 
offer  him  her  hand  and  her  gold,  and  with  him  spend  the 
rest  of  her  life  in  some  spot  far  from  unsympathetic  souls. 


'YOKED  WITH  AN  UNBELIEVER'  39 

She  sat  for  two  months,  alone  in  Watson's  Hotel,  elabo^ 
rating  this  decision,  and  the  picture  was  a  pretty  one. 
Then  she  set  out  in  search  of  Phil  Garron,  Assistant  on  a 
tea  plantation  with  a  more  than  usually  unpronounceable 
name. 


She  found  him.  She  spent  a  month  over  it,  for  hit 
plantation  was  not  in  the  DarjiHng  district  at  all,  but 
nearer  Kangra.  Phil  wa«  very  httle  altered,  and  Dim- 
maya  was  very  nice  to  her. 

Now  the  particular  sin  and  shame  of  the  whole  business 
is  that  Phil,  who  really  is  not  worth  thinking  of  twice, 
was  and  is  loved  by  Dunmaya,  and  more  than  loved  by 
Agnes,  the  whole  of  whose  life  he  seems  to  have  spoilt. 

Worst  of  all,  Dunmaya  is  making  a  decent  man  of  him; 
and  he  will  ultimately  be  saved  from  perdition  through 
her  training. 

Which  is  manifestly  unfair. 


FALSE   DAWN 

To-night  God  knows  what  thing  shall  tide, 

The  Earth  is  racked  and  faint — 
Expectant,  sleepless,  open-eyed; 
And  we,  who  from  the  Earth  were  made, 

Thrill  with  our  Mother's  pain. 

— In  Durance. 

No  man  will  ever  know  the  exact  truth  of  this  story; 
though  women  may  sometimes  whisper  it  to  one  another 
after  a  dance,  when  they  are  putting  up  their  hair  for  the 
night  and  comparing  lists  of  victims.  A  man,  of  course, 
cannot  assist  at  these  functions.  So  the  tale  must  be  told 
from  the  outside — in  the  dark — all  wrong. 

Never  praise  a  sister  to  a  sister,  in  the  hope  of  your 
compliments  reaching  the  proper  ears,  and  so  preparing 
the  way  for  you  later  on.  Sisters  are  women  first,  and 
sisters  afterwards;  and  you  will  find  that  you  do  yourseh 
harm. 

Saumarez  knew  this  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  pro- 
pose to  the  elder  Miss  Copleigh.  Saumarez  was  a  strange 
man,  with  few  merits  so  far  as  men  could  see,  though  he 
was  popular  with  women,  and  carried  enough  conceit  to 
stock  a  Viceroy's  Council  and  leave  a  little  over  for  the 
Commander-in-Chief's  Staff.  He  was  a  Civilian.  Very 
many  women  took  an  interest  in  Saumarez,  perhaps,  be- 
cause his  manner  to  them  was  offensive.    If  you  hit  a 

40 


FALSE  DAWN  41 

pony  over  the  nose  at  the  outset  of  your  acquaintance,  he 
may  not  love  you,  but  he  will  take  a  deep  interest  in  your 
:novements  ever  afterwards.  The  elder  Miss  Copleigh  was 
nice,  plump,  winning,  and  pretty.  The  younger  was  not 
so  pretty,  and,  from  men  disregarding  the  hint  set  forth 
above,  her  style  was  repellent  and  unattractive.  Both 
girls  had,  practically,  the  same  figure,  and  there  was  a 
strong  Hkeness  between  them  in  look  and  voice;  though 
no  one  could  doubt  for  an  instant  which  was  the  nicer  of 
the  two. 

Saumarez  made  up  his  mind,  as  soon  as  they  came  into 
the  station  from  Behar,  to  marry  the  elder  one.  At  least, 
we  all  made  sure  that  he  would,  which  comes  to  the  same 
thing.  She  was  two-and-twenty,  and  he  was  thirty-three, 
with  pay  and  allowances  of  nearly  fourteen  hundred 
rupees  a  month.  So  the  match,  as  we  arranged  it,  was  in 
^very  way  a  good  one.  Saumarez  was  his  name,  and 
rummary  was  his  nature,  as  a  man  once  said.  Having 
drafted  his  Resolution,  he  formed  a  Select  Committee  of 
One  to  sit  upon  it,  and  resolved  to  take  his  time.  In  our 
unpleasant  slang,  the  Copleigh  girls  'hunted  in  couples.' 
That  is  to  say,  you  could  do  nothing  with  one  without  the 
other.  They  were  very  loving  sisters;  but  their  mutual 
affection  was  sometimes  inconvenient.  Saumarez  held 
the  balance-hair  true  between  them,  and  none  but  him- 
self could  have  said  to  which  side  his  heart  inclined; 
though  every  one  guessed.  He  rode  with  them  a  good 
deal  and  danced  with  them,  but  he  never  succeeded  in  de- 
taching them  from  each  other  for  any  length  of  time. 

Women  said  that  the  two  girls  kept  together  through 
deep  mistrust,  each  fearing  that  the  other  would  steal  a 
march  on  her.    But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  man. 


42  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Saumarez  was  silent  for  good  or  bad,  and  as  business- 
likely  attentive  as  he  could  be,  having  due  regard  for  his 
work  and  his  polo.  Beyond  doubt  both  girls  were  fond  of 
him. 

As  the  hot  weather  drew  nearer  and  Saumarez  made  no 
sign,  women  said  that  you  could  see  their  trouble  in  the 
eyes  of  the  girls — that  they  were  looking  strained,  anxious, 
and  irritable.  Men  are  quite  blind  in  these  matters  un- 
less they  have  more  of  the  woman  than  the  man  in  their 
composition,  in  which  case  it  does  not  matter  what  they 
say  or  think.  I  maintain  it  was  the  hot  April  days  that 
took  the  colour  out  of  the  Copleigh  girls'  cheeks.  They 
should  have  been  sent  to  the  Hills  early.  No  one — man  or 
woman — feels  an  angel  when  the  hot  weather  is  approach- 
ing. The  younger  sister  grew  more  cynical,  not  to  say 
acid,  in  her  ways;  and  the  winningness  of  the  elder  wore 
thin.    There  was  effort  in  it. 

The  Station  wherein  all  these  things  happened  was, 
though  not  a  Httle  one,  off  the  line  of  rail,  and  suffered 
through  want  of  attention.  There  were  no  gardens,  or 
bands  or  amusements  worth  speaking  of,  and  it  was  nearly 
a  day's  journey  to  come  into  Lahore  for  a[dance.  People 
were  grateful  for  small  things  to  interest  them. 

About  the  beginning  of  May,  and  just  before  the  final 
exodus  of  Hill-goers,  when  the  weather  was  very  hot  and 
there  were  not  more  than  twenty  people  in  the  Station, 
Saumarez  gave  a  moonlight  riding-picnic  at  an  old 
tomb,  six  miles  away,  near  the  bed  of  the  river.  It  was  a 
'Noah's  Ark'  picnic;  and  there  was  to  be  the  usual 
arrangement  of  quarter-rrile  intervals  between  each 
couple,  on  account  of  the  dust.  Six  couples  came  alto- 
gether, including  chaperones.    Moonlight  picnics  are  use- 


FALSE  DAWN  43 

ful  just  at  the  very  end  of  the  season,  before  all  the  girls 
go  away  to  the  Hills.  They  lead  to  understandings,  and 
should  be  encouraged  by  chaperones;  especially  those 
whose  girls  look  sweetest  in  riding-habits.  I  knew  a  case 
once.  But  that  is  another  story.  That  picnic  was  called 
the '  Great  Pop  Picnic,'  because  every  one  knew  Saumarez 
would  propose  then  to  the  eldest  Miss  Copleigh;  and, 
besides  his  affair,  there  was  another  which  might  possibly 
come  to  happiness.  The  social  atmosphere  was  heavily 
charged  and  wanted  clearing. 

We  met  at  the  parade-ground  at  ten:  the  night  was 
fearfully  hot.  The  horses  sweated  even  at  walking- 
pace,  but  anything  was  better  than  sitting  still  in  our 
own  dark  houses.  When  we  moved  off  under  the  full 
moon  we  were  four  couples,  one  triplet,  and  Me.  Sau- 
marez rode  with  the  Copleigh  girls,  and  I  loitered  at  the 
tail  of  the  procession  wondering  with  whom  Saumarez 
would  ride  home.  Every  one  was  happy  and  contented; 
but  we  all  felt  that  things  were  going  to  happen.  We 
rode  slowly;  and  it  was  midnight  before  we  reached  the 
old  tomb,  facing  the  ruined  tank,  in  the  decayed  gardens 
where  we  were  going  to  eat  and  drink.  I  was  late  in 
coming  up;  and,  before  I  went  in  to  the  garden,  I  saw 
that  the  horizon  to  the  north  carried  a  faint,  dun- 
coloured  feather.  But  no  one  would  have  thanked  me 
for  spoiling  so  well-managed  an  entertainment  as  this 
picnic — and  a  dust-storm,  more  or  less,  does  no  great 
harm. 

We  gathered  by  the  tank.  Some  one  had  brought 
out  a  banjo — which  is  a  most  sentimental  instrument 
— and  three  or  four  of  us  sang.  You  must  not  laugh 
at  this.    Our  amusements  in  out-of-the-way  Stations  are 


44  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

very  few  indeed.  Then  we  talked  in  groups  or  together, 
lying  under  the  trees,  with  the  sun-baked  roses  drop- 
ping their  petals  on  our  feet,  until  supper  was  ready. 
It  was  a  beautiful  supper,  as  cold  and  as  iced  as  you 
could  wish;  and  we  stayed  long  over  it. 

I  had  felt  that  the  air  was  growing  hotter  and  hotter; 
but  nobody  seemed  to  notice  it  until  the  moon  went  out 
and  a  burning  hot  wind  began  lashing  the  orange-trees 
with  a  sound  like  the  noise  of  the  sea.  Before  we  knew 
where  we  were,  the  dust-storm  was  on  us  and  every- 
thing was  roaring,  whirling  darkness.  The  supper- 
table  was  blown  bodily  into  the  tank.  We  were  afraid 
of  staying  anywhere  near  the  old  tomb  for  fear  it  might 
fall  down.  So  we  felt  our  way  to  the  orange-trees  where 
the  horses  were  picketed  and  waited  for  the  storm  to 
blow  over.  Then  the  little  remaining  Hght  vanished, 
and  you  could  not  see  your  hand  before  your  face.^^  The 
air  was  heavy  with  dust  and  sand  from  the  bed  of  the  river, 
that  filled  boots  and  pockets  and  drifted  down  necks  and 
coated  eyebrows  and  moustaches.  We  all  huddled  to- 
gether close  to  the  trembling  horses,  with  the  thunder 
chattering  overhead,  and  the  lightning  spurting  like 
water  from  a  sluice,  all  ways  at  once.  There  was  no 
danger,  of  course,  unless  the  horses  broke  loose.  I  was 
standing  with  my  head  downwind  and  my  hands 
over  my  mouth,  hearing  the  trees  thrashing  each  other. 
I  could  not  see  who  was  next  me  till  the  flashes  came. 
Then  I  found  that  I  was  packed  near  Saumarez  and  the 
eldest  Miss  Copleigh,  with  my  own  horse  just  in  front 
of  me.  I  recognised  the  eldest  Miss  Copleigh,  because 
she  had  a  puggree  round  her  helmet,  and  the  younger  had 
not.    All  the  electricity  in  the  air  had  gone  into  my 


FALSE  DAWN  4S 

body  and  I  was  quivering  and  tingling  from  head  to 
foot — exactly  as  a  corn  shoots  and  tingles  before  rain. 
It  was  a  grand  storm.  The  wind  seemed  to  be  picking 
up  the  earth  and  pitching  it  to  leeward  in  great  heaps; 
and  the  heat  beat  up  from  the  ground  like  the  heat  of 
the  Day  of  Judgment. 

The  storm  lulled  slightly  after  the  first  half-hour, 
and  I  heard  a  despairing  Httle  voice  close  to  my  ear, 
saying  to  itself,  quietly  and  softly,  as  if  some  lost  soul 
were  flying  about  with  the  wind,  ^O  my  God!'  Then 
the  younger  Miss  Copleigh  stimibled  into  my  arms, 
saying,  *  Where  is  my  horse?  Get  my  horse.  I  want  to 
go  home.    I  want  to  go  home.    Take  me  home.' 

I  thought  that  the  Ughtning  and  the  black  darkness 
had  frightened  her;  so  I  said  there  was  no  danger,  but 
she  must  wait  till  the  storm  blew  over.  She  answered, 
'It  is  not  that!  I  want  to  go  home!  Oh,  take  me  away 
from  here!' 

I  said  that  she  could  not  go  till  the  light  came;  but 
I  felt  her  brush  past  me  and  go  away.  It  was  too  dark  to 
see  where.  Then  the  whole  sky  was  spHt  open  with  one 
tremendous  flash,  as  if  the  end  of  the  world  were  coming, 
and  all  the  women  shrieked. 

Almost  directly  after  this,  I  felt  a  man's  hand  on 
my  shoulder  and  heard  Saumarez  bellowing  in  my  ear. 
Through  the  rattling  of  the  trees  and  howling  of  the 
wind,  I  did  not  catch  his  words  at  once,  but  at  last  I 
heard  him  say,  'I've  proposed  to  the  wrong  one!  What 
shall  I  do?'  Saumarez  had  no  occasion  to  make  this 
confidence  to  me.  I  was  never  a  friend  of  his,  nor  am  I 
now;  but  I  fancy  neither  of  us  were  ourselves  just  then. 
He  was  shaking  as  he  stood  with  excitement,  and  I  was 


46  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

feeling  queer  all  over  with  the  electricity.  I  could  not 
think  of  anything  to  say  except,  'More  fool  you  for 
proposing  in  a  dust-storm.'  But  I  did  not  see  how  that 
would  improve  the  mistake. 

Then  he  shouted,  'Where's  Edith— Edith  Copleigh?' 
Edith  was  the  younger  sister.  I  answered  out  of  my 
astonishment,  'What  do  you  want  with  her?^  For 
the  next  two  minutes,  he  and  I  were  shouting  at 
each  other  like  maniacs, — he  vowing  that  it  was  the 
younger  sister  he  had  meant  to  propose  to  all  along,  and 
I  telHng  him  till  my  throat  was  hoarse  that  he  must  have 
made  a  mistake!  I  cannot  account  for  this  except, 
again,  by  the  fact  that  we  were  neither  of  us  ourselves. 
Everything  seemed  to  me  like  a  bad  dream — from  the 
stamping  of  the  horses  in  the  darkness  to  Saumarez  tell- 
ing me  the  story  of  his  loving  Edith  Copleigh  from  the 
first.  He  was  still  clawing  my  shoulder  and  begging  me 
to  tell  him  where  Edith  Copleigh  was,  when  another 
lull  came  and  brcught  light  with  it,  and  we  saw  the 
dust-cloud  forming  on  the  plain  in  front  of  us.  So 
we  knew  the  worst  was  over.  The  moon  was  low  down, 
and  there  was  just  the  glimmer  of  the  false  dawn  that 
comes  about  an  hour  before  the  real  one.  But  the  light 
was  very  faint,  and  the  dun  cloud  roared  like  a  bull. 
I  wondered  where  Edith  Copleigh  had  gone;  and  as  I 
was  wondering  I  saw  three  things  together:  First,  Maud 
Copleigh's  face  come  smiling  out  of  the  darkness  and 
move  towards  Saumarez  who  was  standing  by  me.  I 
heard  the  girl  whisper,  'George,'  and  slide  her  arm 
through  the  arm  that  was  not  clawing  my  shoulder, 
and  I  saw  that  look  on  her  face  which  only  comes  once  or 
twice  in  a  lifetime — when  a  woman  is  perfectly  happy  and 


FALSE  DAWN  47 

the  air  is  full  of  trumpets  and  gorgeously  coloured  fire 
and  the  Earth  turns  into  cloud  because  she  loves  and  is 
loved.  At  the  same  time,  I  saw  Saumarez's  face  as 
he  heard  Maud  Copleigh's  voice,  and  fifty  yards  away 
from  the  clump  of  orange-trees,  I  saw  a  brown  hoUand 
habit  getting  upon  a  horse. 

It  must  have  been  my  state  of  over-excitement  that 
made  me  so  ready  to  meddle  with  what  did  not  con- 
cern me.  Saiunarez  was  moving  off  to  the  habit;  but 
I  pushed  him  back  and  said,  'Stop  here  and  explain. 
I'll  fetch  her  back!'  And  I  ran  out  to  get  at  my  own 
horse.  I  had  a  perfectly  unnecessary  notion  that  every- 
thing must  be  done  decently  and  in  order,  and  that 
Saumarez's  first  care  was  to  wipe  the  happy  look  out 
of  Maud  Copleigh's  face.  All  the  time  I  was  linking 
up  the  curb-chain  I  wondered  how  he  would  do  it. 

I  cantered  after  Edith  Copleigh,  thinking  to  bring 
her  back  slowly  on  some  pretence  or  another.  But 
she  galloped  away  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  and  I  was 
forced  to  ride  after  her  in  earnest.  She  called  back 
over  her  shoulder — 'Go  away!  I'm  going  home.  Oh, 
go  away!'  two  or  three  times;  but  my  business  was 
to  catch  her  first,  and  argue  later.  The  ride  fitted 
in  with  the  rest  of  the  evil  dream.  The  ground  was 
very  rough,  and  now  and  again  we  rushed  through 
the  whirling,  choking  'dust-devils'  in  the  skirts  of  the 
flying  storm.  There  was  a  burning  hot  wind  blowing 
that  brought  up  a  stench  of  stale  brick-kilns  with  it;  and 
through  the  half  light  and  through  the  dust-devils, 
across  that  desolate  plain,  flickered  the  brown  holland 
habit  on  the  gray  horse.  She  headed  for  the  Station  at 
first.    Then  she  wheeled  round  and  set  off  for  the  river 


48  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

♦through  beds  of  burnt-down  jungle-grass,  bad  even  to 
ride  pig  over.  In  cold  blood  I  should  never  have 
dreamed  of  going  over  such  a  country  at  night,  but  it 
seemed  quite  right  and  natural  with  the  Hghtning  crack- 
ling overhead,  and  a  reek  like  the  smell  of  the  Pit  in  my 
nostrils.  I  rode  and  shouted,  and  she  bent  forward 
and  lashed  her  horse,  and  the  aftermath  of  the  dust- 
storm  came  up,  and  caught  us  both,  and  drove  us  down- 
wind like  pieces  of  paper. 

I  don't  know  how  far  we  rode;  but  the  drumming 
of  the  horse-hoofs  and  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  race  of 
the  faint  blood-red  moon  through  the  yellow  mist  seemed 
to  have  gone  on  for  years  and  years,  and  I  was  literally 
drenched  with  sweat  from  my  helmet  to  my  gaiters  when 
the  gray  stumbled,  recovered  himself  and  pulled  up  dead 
lame.  My  brute  was  used  up  altogether.  Edith  Cop- 
leigh  was  bareheaded,  plastered  with  dust,  and  crying 
bitterly.  *  Why  can't  you  let  me  alone? '  she  said.  '  I  only 
wanted  to  get  away  and  go  home.  Oh,  please  let  me 
gor 

^You  have  got  to  come  back  with  me,  Miss  Copleigh. 
Saumarez  has  something  to  say  to  you.' 

It  was  a  foolish  way  of  putting  it;  but  I  hardly  knew 
Miss  Copleigh,  and,  though  I  was  playing  Providence 
at  the  cost  of  my  horse,  I  could  not  tell  her  in  as  many 
words  what  Saumarez  had  told  me.  I  thought  he  could 
do  that  better  himseK.  All  her  pretence  about  being 
tired  and  wanting  to  go  home  broke  down,  and  she 
rocked  herself  to  and  fro  in  the  saddle  as  she  sobbed, 
and  the  hot  wind  blew  her  black  hair  to  leeward.  I  am 
not  going  to  repeat  what  she  said,  because  she  was 
utterly  unstrung. 


FALSE  DAWN  4g 

This  was  the  C5niical  Miss  Copleigh,  and  I,  ahnost 
an  utter  stranger  to  her,  was  trying  to  tell  her  that 
Saumarez  loved  her  and  she  was  to  come  back  to  hear 
him  say  so.  I  believe  I  made  myself  understood,  for 
she  gathered  the  gray  together  and  made  him  hobble 
somehow,  and  we  set  off  for  the  tomb,  while  the  storm 
went  thundering  down  to  Umballa  and  a  few  big  drops 
of  warm  rain  fell.  I  found  out  that  she  had  been  stand- 
mg  close  to  Saumarez  when  he  proposed  to  her  sister, 
and  had  wanted  to  go  home  to  cry  in  peace,  as  an  Eng- 
lish girl  should.  She  dabbed  her  eyes  with  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  as  we  went  along,  and  babbled  to  me  out 
of  sheer  lightness  of  heart  and  hysteria.  That  was  per- 
fectly unnatural;  and  yet,  it  seemed  all  right  at  the  time 
and  in  the  place.  All  the  world  was  only  the  two  Cop- 
leigh girls,  Saumarez  and  I,  ringed  in  with  the  Hghtning 
and  the  dark;  and  the  guidance  of  this  misguided  world 
seemed  to  He  in  my  hands. 

When  we  returned  to  the  tomb  in  the  deep  dead  still- 
ness that  followed  the  storm,  the  dawn  was  just  break- 
ing and  nobody  had  gone  away.  They  were  waiting  for 
our  return.  Saumarez  most  of  all.  His  face  was  white 
and  drawn.  As  Miss  Copleigh  and  I  limped  up,  he  came 
forward  to  meet  us,  and,  when  he  helped  her  down  from 
her  saddle,  he  kissed  her  before  all  the  picnic.  It  was 
like  a  scene  in  a  theatre,  and  the  likeness  was  heightened 
by  all  the  dust-white,  ghostly  looking  men  and  women 
imder  the  orange-trees  clapping  their  hands — as  if  they 
were  watching  a  play — at  Saumarez's  choice.  I  never 
knew  anything  so  un-English  in  my  Hfe. 

Lastly,  Saumarez  said  we  must  all  go  home  or  the 
Station  would  come  out  to  look  for  us,  and  would  I 


50  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

be  good  enough  to  ride  home  with  Maud  Copleigh? 
Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure,  I  said. 

So  we  formed  up,  six  couples  in  all,  and  went  back 
two  by  two;  Saumarez  walking  at  the  side  of  Edith  Cop- 
leigh, who  was  riding  his  horse.  Maud  Copleigh  did  not 
talk  to  me  at  any  length. 

The  air  was  cleared;  and,  little  by  little,  as  the  sun 
rose,  I  felt  we  were  all  dropping  back  again  into  ordinary 
men  and  women,  and  that  the  '  Great  Pop  Picnic'  was  a 
thing  altogether  apart  and  out  of  the  world — never  to 
happen  again.  It  had  gone  with  the  dust-storm  and  the 
tingle  in  the  hot  air. 

I  felt  tired  and  Ump,  and  a  good  deal  ashamed  of 
myself  as  I  went  in  for  a  bath  and  some  sleep. 

There  is  a  woman's  version  of  this  story,  but  it  will 
never  be  written  .  .  .  xmless  Maud  Copleigh  caret 
to  try. 


i 


THE  RESCUE  OF  PLUFFLES 

Thus,  for  a  season,  they  fought  it  fair — 

She  and  his  Cousin  May — 
Tactful,  talented,  debonnaire, 

Decorous  foes  were  they; 
But  never  can  battle  of  man  compare 

With  merciless  feminine  fray. 

— Two  and  One. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  sometimes  nice  to  her  own  sex. 
Here  is  a  story  to  prove  this;  and  you  can  believe  just  as 
much  as  ever  you  please. 

Pluffles  was  a  subaltern  in  the  'Unmentionables.'  He 
was  callow,  even  for  a  subaltern.  He  was  callow  all  over 
— like  a  canary  that  had  not  finished  fledging  itself.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  he  had  three  times  as  much  money  as 
was  good  for  him;  Pluffles'  Papa  being  a  rich  man  and 
Pluffles  being  the  only  son.  Pluffles'  Mamma  adored 
him.  She  was  only  a  Kttle  less  callow  than  Pluffles,  and 
she  beheved  everything  he  said. 

Pluffles'  weakness  was  not  believing  what  people  said. 
He  preferred  what  he  called  trusting  to  his  own  judgment. 
He  had  as  much  judgment  as  he  had  seat  or  hands;  and 
this  preference  tumbled  him  into  trouble  once  or  twice. 
But  the  biggest  trouble  Pluffles  ever  manufactured  came 
about  at  Simla — some  years  ago,  when  he  was  four-and- 
twenty. 

He  began  by  trusting  to  his  own  judgment  as  usual,  and 

51 


52  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

the  result  was  that,  after  a  time,  he  was  bound  hand  and 
foot  to  Mrs.  Reiver's  'rickshaw  wheels. 

There  was  nothing  good  about  Mrs.  Reiver,  unless  it 
was  her  dress.  She  was  bad  from  her  hair — which  started 
Ufe  on  a  Brittany  girl's  head — to  her  boot-heels,  which 
were  two  and  three-eighths  inches  high.  She  was  not 
honestly  mischievous  like  Mrs.  Hauksbee;  she  was  wicked 
in  a  business-like  way. 

There  was  never  any  scandal — she  had  not  generous  im- 
pulses enough  for  that.  She  was  the  exception  which 
proved  the  rule  that  Anglo-Indian  ladies  are  in  every  way 
as  nice  as  their  sisters  at  Home.  She  spent  her  life  in 
proving  that  rule. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  and  she  hated  each  other  fervently. 
They  hated  far  too  much  to  clash;  but  the  things  they 
said  of  each  other  were  startling — not  to  say  original. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  honest — honest  as  her  own  front-teeth 
— and,  but  for  her  love  of  mischief,  would  have  been  a 
woman's  woman.  There  was  no  honesty  about  Mrs. 
Reiver;  nothing  but  selfishness.  And  at  the  beginmng  of 
the  season,  poor  little  Pluffles  fell  a  prey  to  her.  She  laid 
herself  out  to  that  end,  and  who  was  Pluffles  to  resist?  He 
trusted  to  his  judgment,  and  he  got  judged. 

I  have  seen  Captain  Hayes  argue  with  a  tough  horse — I 
have  seen  a  tonga-driver  coerce  a  stubborn  pony — I  have 
seen  a  riotous  setter  broken  to  gun  by  a  hard  keeper — but 
the  breaking-in  of  Pluffles  of  the  *  Unmentionables'  was 
beyond  all  these.  He  learned  to  fetch  and  carry  like  a  dog, 
iind  to  wait  like  one,  too,  for  a  word  from  Mrs.  Reiver.  He 
learned  to  keep  appointments  which  Mrs.  Reiver  had  no 
mtention  of  keeping.  He  learned  to  take  thankfully 
dances  which  Mrs.  Reiver  had  no  intention  of  giving  him. 


THE  RESCUE  OF  PLUFFLES  S3 

He  learned  to  shiver  for  an  hour  and  a  quarter  on  the  wind- 
ward side  of  Elysium  while  Mrs.  Reiver  was  making  up  her 
mind  to  come  for  a  ride.  He  learned  to  hunt  for  a  'rick' 
shaw,  in  a  light  dress-suit  under  pelting  rain,  and  to  walk 
by  the  side  of  that  'rickshaw  when  he  had  found  it.  He 
learned  what  it  was  to  be  spoken  to  like  a  coolie  and 
ordered  about  like  a  cook.  He  learned  all  this  and  many 
other  things  besides.   And  he  paid  for  his  schooling. 

Perhaps,  in  some  hazy  way,  he  fancied  that  it  was  fine 
and  impressive,  that  it  gave  him  a  status  among  men,  and 
was  altogether  the  thing  to  do.  It  was  nobody's  business 
to  warn  Pluffles  that  he  was  unwise.  The  pace  that  season 
was  too  good  to  inquire;  and  meddling  with  another  man's 
folly  is  always  thankless  work.  PlufHes'  Colonel  should 
have  ordered  him  back  to  his  regiment  when  he  heard  how 
things  were  going.  But  Pluffles  had  got  himself  engaged 
to  a  girl  in  England  the  last  time  he  went  Home;  and,  if 
there  was  one  thing  more  than  another  that  the  Colonel 
detested,  it  was  a  married  subaltern.  He  chuckled  when 
he  heard  of  the  education  of  Pluffles,  and  said  it  was  good 
training  for  the  boy.  But  it  was  not  good  training  in  the 
least.  It  led  him  into  spending  money  beyond  his  means, 
which  were  good;  above  that,  the  education  spoilt  an 
average  boy  and  made  it  a  tenth-rate  man  of  an  objection- 
able kind.  He  wandered  into  a  bad  set,  and  his  little  bill 
at  the  jewellers  was  a  thing  to  wonder  at. 

Then  Mrs.  Hauksbee  rose  to  the  occasion.  She  played 
her  game  alone,  knowing  what  people  would  say  of  her; 
and  she  played  it  for  the  sake  of  a  girl  she  had  never  seea 
Thi^es^  fiancee  was  to  come  out,  under  chaperonage  of  an 
aunt,  in  October,  to  be  married  to  Pluffles. 

At  the  beginning  of  August,  Mrs.  Hauksbee  discovered 


54  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

that  it  was  time  to  interfere.  A  man  who  rides  much 
knows  exactly  what  a  horse  is  going  to  do  next  before  he 
does  it.  In  the  same  way,  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Hauksbee's 
experience  knows  accurately  how  a  boy  will  behave  under 
certain  circumstances — notably  when  he  is  infatuated 
with  one  of  Mrs.  Reiver's  stamp.  She  said  that,  sooner  or 
later,  little  Pluffles  would  break  off  that  engagement  for 
nothing  at  all — simply  to  gratify  Mrs.  Reiver,  who,  in 
return,  would  keep  him  at  her  feet  and  in  her  service  just 
so  long  as  she  found  it  worth  her  while.  She  said  she 
knew  the  signs  of  these  things.  If  she  did  not,  no  one  else 
could. 

Then  she  went  forth  to  capture  Pluffles  under  the  guns 
of  the  enemy;  just  as  Mrs.  Cusack-Bremmil  carried  away 
Bremmil  under  Mrs.  Hauksbee's  eyes. 

This  particular  engagement  lasted  seven  weeks — we 
called  it  the  Seven  Weeks'  War — and  was  fought  out  inch 
by  inch  on  both  sides.  A  detailed  account  would  fill  a 
book,  and  would  be  incomplete  then.  Any  one  who  knows 
about  these  things  can  fit  in  the  details  for  himself.  It 
was  a  superb  fight — there  will  never  be  another  like  it  as 
long  as  Jakko  Hill  stands— and  Pluffles  was  the  prize  of 
victory.  People  said  shameful  things  about  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee.  They  did  not  know  what  she  was  playing  for.  Mrs. 
Reiver  fought  partly  because  Pluffles  was  useful  to  her, 
but  mainly  because  she  hated  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  and  the 
matter  was  a  trial  of  strength  between  them.  No  one 
knows  what  Pluffles  thought.  He  had  not  many  ideas  at 
the  best  of  times,  and  the  few  he  possessed  made  him  con- 
ceited. Mrs.  Hauksbee  said,  'The  boy  must  be  caught; 
and  the  only  way  of  catching  him  is  by  treating  him  well.' 

So  she  treated  him  as  a  man  of  the  world  and  of  ex^ 


THE  RESCUE  OF  PLUFFLES  SS 

perience  so  long  as  the  issue  was  doubtful.  Little  by  little, 
Pluffles  fell  away  from  his  old  allegiance  and  came  over  to 
the  enemy,  by  whom  he  was  made  much  of.  He  was  never 
sent  on  out-post  duty  after  'rickshaws  any  more,  nor  was 
he  given  dances  which  never  came  off,  nor  were  the  drains 
on  his  purse  continued.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  held  him  on  the 
snafHe;  and,  after  his  treatment  at  Mrs.  Reiver's  hands, 
he  appreciated  the  change. 

Mrs.  Reiver  had  broken  him  of  talking  about  himself, 
and  made  him  talk  about  her  own  merits.  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
acted  otherwise,  and  won  his  confidence,  till  he  mentioned 
his  engagement  to  the  girl  at  Home,  speaking  of  it  in  a 
high  and  mighty  way  as  a  piece  of  boyish  folly.  This  was 
when  he  was  taking  tea  with  her  one  afternoon,  and  dis- 
coursing in  what  he  considered  a  gay  and  fascinating 
style.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  seen  an  earlier  generation  of 
his  stamp  bud  and  blossom,  and  decay  into  fat  Captains 
and  tubby  Majors. 

At  a  moderate  estimate  there  were  about  three-and- 
twenty  sides  to  that  lady's  character.  Some  men  say 
more.  She  began  to  talk  to  PlufHes  after  the  manner  of  a 
mother,  and  as  if  there  had  been  three  hundred  years,  in- 
stead of  fifteen,  between  them.  She  spoke  with  a  sort  of 
throaty  quaver  in  her  voice  which  had  a  soothing  effect, 
though  what  she  said  was  anything  but  soothing.  She 
pointed  out  the  exceeding  folly,  not  to  say  meanness,  of 
Pluflles'  conduct,  and  the  smallness  of  his  views.  Then  he 
stanunered  something  about  'trusting  to  his  own  judg- 
ment as  a  man  of  the  world';  and  this  paved  the  way  for 
what  she  wanted  to  say  next.  It  would  have  withered  up 
Pluffles  had  it  come  from  any  other  woman;  but,  in  the 
soft  cooing  style  in  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee  put  it,  it  only 


S6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

made  him  feel  limp  and  repentant — as  if  he  had  been  in 
some  superior  kind  of  church.  Little  by  Httle,  very  softly 
and  pleasantly,  she  began  taking  the  conceit  out  of 
Pluffles,  as  they  take  the  ribs  out  of  an  umbrella  before  re- 
covering it.  She  told  him  what  she  thought  of  him  and 
his  judgment  and  his  knowledge  of  the  world;  and  how  his 
performances  had  made  him  ridiculous  to  other  people; 
and  how  it  was  his  intention  to  make  love  to  herself  if  she 
gave  him  the  chance.  Then  she  said  that  marriage  would 
be  the  making  of  him;  and  drew  a  pretty  little  picture — all 
rose  and  opal — of  the  Mrs.  Pluffles  of  the  future  going 
through  Hf  e  relying  on  the  judgment  and  knowledge  of  the 
world  of  a  husband  who  had  nothing  to  reproach  himself 
with.  How  she  reconciled  these  two  statements  she  alone 
knew.     But  they  did  not  strike  Pluffles  as  conflicting. 

Hers  was  a  perfect  Httle  homily — much  better  than  any 
clergyman  could  have  given — and  it  ended  with  touching 
allusions  to  Pluffles'  Mamma  and  Papa,  and  the  wisdom 
of  taking  his  bride  Home. 

Then  she  sent  Pluffles  out  for  a  walk,  to  think  over 
what  she  had  said.  Pluffles  left,  blowing  his  nose  very 
hard  and  holding  himself  very  straight.  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
laughed. 

What  Pluffles  had  intended  to  do  in  the  matter  of  the 
engagement  only  Mrs.  Reiver  knew,  and  she  kept  her  own 
counsel  to  her  death.  She  would  have  Hked  it  spoiled  as  a 
compHment,  I  fancy. 

Pluffles  enjoyed  many  talks  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  during 
the  next  few  days.  They  were  all  to  the  same  end,  and 
they  helped  Pluffles  in  the  path  of  Virtue. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  wanted  to  keep  him  under  her  wing  to 
the  last.    Therefore  she  discountenanced  his  going  down 


THE  RESCUE  OF  PLUFFLES  57 

to  Bombay  to  get  married.  ^  Goodness  only  knows  what 
might  happen  by  the  way!'  she  said.  'Pluffles  is  cursed 
with  the  curse  of  Reuben,  and  India  is  no  fit  place  for 
himr 

In  the  end,  the  fiancee  arrived  with  her  aunt;  and 
PlufSes,  having  reduced  his  affairs  to  some  sort  of  order, 
— here  again  Mrs.  Hauskbee  helped  him, — was  married. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  both  the  '  I 
wills'  had  been  said,  and  went  her  way. 

Pluffles  took  her  advice  about  going  Home.  He  left  the 
Service  and  is  now  raising  speckled  cattle  inside  green 
painted  fences  somewhere  in  England.  I  beheve  he  does 
this  very  judiciously.  He  would  have  come  to  extreme 
grief  in  India. 

For  these  reasons,  if  any  one  says  anything  more  than 
usually  nasty  about  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  tell  him  the  story  of 
the  Rescue  of  Pluffles. 


CUPID'S  ARROWS 

Pit  where  the  buffalo  cooled  his  hide, 

By  the  hot  sun  emptied,  and  blistered  and  dried; 

Log  in  the  plume-grass,  hidden  and  lone; 

Dam  where  the  earth-rat's  mounds  are  strown; 

Cave  in  the  bank  where  the  sly  stream  steals; 

Aloe  that  stabs  at  the  belly  and  heels, 

Jump  if  you  dare  on  a  steed  untried — 

Safer  it  is  to  go  wide — go  wide! 

Hark,  from  in  front  where  the  best  men  ride: — 

*  PmU  to  the  of,  boys  I    Wide  I  Go  wide  1 ' 

—The  Peora  Hunt. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  at  Simla  a  very  pretty  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  poor  but  honest  District  and  Sessions 
Judge.  She  was  a  good  girl,  but  could  not  help  knowing 
her  power  and  using  it.  Her  Mamma  was  very  anxious 
about  her  daughter's  future,  as  all  good  Mammas  should 
be. 

When  a  man  is  a  Commissioner  and  a  bachelor  and  has 
the  right  of  wearing  open-work  jam-tart  jewels  in  gold 
and  enamel  on  his  clothes,  and  of  going  through  a  door 
before  every  one  except  a  Member  of  Council,  a  Lieuten- 
ant-Governor, or  a  Viceroy,  he  is  worth  marrying.  At 
least,  that  is  what  ladies  say.  There  was  a  Commissioner 
in  Simla,  in  those  days,  who  was,  and  wore,  and  did  all  I 
have  said.  He  was  a  plain  man — an  ugly  man — the 
ugliest  man  in  Asia,  with  two  exceptions.    His  was  a  face 

s8 


CUPID'S  ARROWS  59 

to  dream  about  and  try  to  carve  on  a  pipe-head  after- 
wards. His  name  was  Saggott — Barr-Saggott — Anthony 
Barr-Saggott  and  six  letters  to  follow.  Departmen tally, 
he  was  one  of  the  best  men  the  Government  of  India 
owned.     Socially,  he  was  like  unto  a  blandishing  gorilla. 

When  he  turned  his  attentions  to  Miss  Beighton,  I  be- 
lieve that  Mrs.  Beighton  wept  with  deHght  at  the  reward 
Providence  had  sent  her  in  her  old  age. 

Mr.  Beighton  held  his  tongue.  He  was  an  easy-going 
man. 

A  Commissioner  is  very  rich.  His  pay  is  beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice — is  so  enormous  that  he  can  afford  to 
save  and  scrape  in  a  way  that  would  almost  discredit  a 
Member  of  Coimcil.  Most  Commissioners  are  mean;  but 
Barr-Saggott  was  an  exception.  He  entertained  royally; 
he  horsed  himself  well;  he  gave  dances;  he  was  a  power  in 
the  land;  and  he  behaved  as  such. 

Consider  that  everything  I  am  writing  of  took  place  in 
an  almost  pre-historic  era  in  the  history  of  British  India. 
Some  folk  may  remember  the  years  before  lawn-tennis 
was  born  when  we  aU  played  croquet.  There  were  seasons 
before  that,  if  you  will  believe  me,  when  even  croquet  had 
not  been  invented,  and  archery — which  was  revived  in 
England  in  1844 — was  as  great  a  pest  as  lawn- tennis  is 
now.  People  talked  learnedly  about  'holding'  and  'loos- 
ing,' 'steles,'  'reflexed  bows,'  '  56-pound  bows,'  ^backed' 
or  'seK-yew  bows,'  as  we  talk  about  'raUies,'  'volleys,' 
'smashes,'  'returns,'  and  'i6-oimce  rackets.' 

Miss  Beighton  shot  divinely  over  ladies'  distance — 60 
yards,  that  is — and  was  acknowledged  the  best  lady 
archer  in  Simla.  Men  caUed  her  'Diana  of  Tara- 
Devi/ 


6o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Barr-Saggott  paid  her  great  attention;  and,  as  I  have 
said,  the  heart  of  her  mother  was  uphf ted  in  consequence. 
Kitty  Beighton  took  matters  more  calmly.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  be  singled  out  by  a  Commissioner  with  letters  after 
his  name,  and  to  fill  the  hearts  of  other  girls  with  bad  feel- 
ings. But  there  was  no  denying  the  fact  that  Barr-Saggott 
was  phenomenally  ugly;  and  all  his  attempts  to  adorn 
himseK  only  made  him  more  grotesque.  He  was  not 
christened  'The  Langiir' — which  means  gray  ape — for 
nothing.  It  was  pleasant,  Kitty  thought,  to  have  him  at 
her  feet,  but  it  was  better  to  escape  from  him  and  ride 
with  the  graceless  Cubbon — the  man  in  a  Dragoon  Regi- 
ment at  Umballa — the  boy  with  a  handsome  face,  and  no 
prospects.  Kitty  liked  Cubbon  more  than  a  little.  He 
never  pretended  for  a  moment  that  he  was  anything  less 
than  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her;  for  he  was  an  honest 
boy.  So  Kitty  fled,  now  and  again,  from  the  stately 
wooings  of  Barr-Saggott  to  the  company  of  young  Cubbon, 
and  was  scolded  by  her  Mamma  in  consequence.  '  But, 
Mother,'  she  said,  'Mr.  Saggott  is  such — such  a — is  so 
fearfully  ugly,  you  know!' 

'My  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Beighton,  piously,  'we  cannot  be 
other  than  an  all-ruling  Providence  has  made  us.  Be- 
sides, you  will  take  precedence  of  your  own  Mother,  your 
know !    Think  of  that,  and  be  reasonable. ' 

Then  Kitty  put  up  her  Httle  chin  and  said  irreverent 
things  about  precedence,  and  Commissioners,  and  matri- 
mony. Mr.  Beighton  rubbed  the  top  of  his  head;  for  he 
was  an  easy-going  man. 

Late  in  the  season,  when  he  judged  that  the  time  was 
ripe,  Barr-Saggott  developed  a  plan  which  did  great 
credit  to  his  administrative  powers.      He  arranged  an 


CUPID'S  ARROWS  6i 

archery-tournament  for  ladies,  with  a  most  sumptuous 
diamond-studded  bracelet  as  prize.  He  drew  up  his  terms 
skilfully,  and  every  one  saw  that  the  bracelet  was  a  gift  to 
Miss  Beighton;  the  acceptance  carrying  with  it  the  hand 
and  the  heart  of  Commissioner  Barr-Saggott.  The 
terms  were  a  St.  Leonard's  Round — thirty-six  shots 
at  sixty  yards — under  the  rules  of  the  Simla  Toxophilite 
Society. 

All  Simla  was  invited.  There  were  beautifully  arranged 
tea-tables  under  the  deodars  at  Annandale,  where  the 
Grand  Stand  is  now;  and,  alone  in  its  glory,  winking  in  the 
sun,  sat  the  diamond  bracelet  in  a  blue  velvet  case.  Miss 
Beighton  was  anxious — almost  too  anxious — to  compete. 
On  the  appointed  afternoon  all  Simla  rode  down  to 
Annandale  to  witness  the  Judgment  of  Paris  turned 
upside  down.  Kitty  rode  with  young  Cubbon,  and  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  the  boy  was  troubled  in  his  mind. 
He  must  be  held  innocent  of  everything  that  followed. 
Kitty  was  pale  and  nervous,  and  looked  long  at  the 
bracelet.  Barr-Saggott  was  gorgeously  dressed,  even 
more  nervous  than  ICitty,  and  more  hideous  than 
ever. 

Mrs.  Beighton  smiled  condescendingly,  as  befitted  the 
mother  of  a  potential  Commissioneress,  and  the  shooting 
began;  all  the  world  standing  a  semicircle  as  the  ladies 
came  out  one  after  the  other. 

Nothing  is  so  tedious  as  an  archery  competition.  They 
shot,  and  they  shot,  and  they  kept  on  shooting,  till  the 
s}in  left  the  valley,  and  little  breezes  got  up  in  the  deodars, 
^nd  people  waited  for  Miss  Beighton  to  shoot  and  win. 
Cubbon  was  at  one  horn  of  the  semicircle  round  the 
shooters,  and  Barr-Saggott  at  the  other.    Miss  Beighton 


62  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 


was  last  on  the  list.  The  scoring  had  been  weak,  and  the 
bracelet,  with  Commissioner  Barr-Saggott,  was  hers  to  a 
certainty. 

The  Commissioner  strung  her  bow  with  his  own  sacred 
hands.  She  stepped  forward,  looked  at  the  bracelet,  and 
her  first  arrow  went  true  to  a  hair — full  into  the  heart  of 
the  ^  gold ' — counting  nine  points. 

Young  Cubbon  on  the  left  turned  white,  and  his  Devil 
prompted  Barr-Saggott  to  smile.  Now  horses  used  to  shy 
when  Barr-Saggott  smiled.  Kitty  saw  that  smile.  She 
looked  to  her  left-front,  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  nod 
to  Cubbon,  and  went  on  shooting. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  scene  that  followed.  It  was 
out  of  the  ordinary  and  most  improper.  Miss  Kitty  fitted 
her  arrows  with  immense  deliberation,  so  that  every  one 
might  see  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  a  perfect  shot; 
and  her  46-pound  bow  suited  her  to  a  nicety.  She  pinned 
the  wooden  legs  of  the  target  with  great  care  four  succes- 
sive times.  She  pinned  the  wooden  top  of  the  target  once, 
and  all  the  ladies  looked  at  each  other.  Then  she  began 
some  fancy  shooting  at  the  white,  which,  if  you  hit  it, 
counts  exactly  one  point.  She  put  five  arrows  into  the 
white.  It  was  wonderful  archery;  but,  seeing  that  her 
business  was  to  make  'golds'  and  win  the  bracelet,  Barr- 
Saggott  turned  a  delicate  green  Hke  a  young  water-grass. 
Next,  she  shot  over  the  target  twice,  then  wide  to  the  left 
twice — always  with  the  same  deliberation — while  a  chilly 
hush  fell  over  the  company,  and  Mrs.  Beighton  took  out 
her  handkerchief.  Then  Kitty  shot  at  the  ground  in  front 
of  the  target,  and  spHt  several  arrows.  Then  she  made  a 
red — or  seven  points — ^just  to  show  what  she  could  do  if 
she  liked,  and  she  finished  up  her  amazmg  performance 


CtJi>lD'S  ARROWS  63 

with  some  more  fancy  shooting  at  the  target  supports. 
Here  is  her  score  as  it  was  pricked  off: — 

Gold.      Red.    Blue.  Black.  White.    '^^  ^°^| 
MissBeighton     i  i  o  o  5  721 

Barr-Saggott  looked  as  if  the  last  few  arrow-heads  had 
been  driven  into  his  legs  instead  of  the  target's,  and  the 
deep  stillness  was  broken  by  a  Uttle  snubby,  mottled,  half- 
grown  girl  saying  in  a  shrill  voice  of  triumph,  '  Then  Fve 
won!' 

Mrs.  Beighton  did  her  best  to  bear  up;  but  she  wept  in 
the  presence  of  the  people.  No  training  could  help  her 
through  such  a  disappointment.  Kitty  unstrung  her  bow 
with  a  vicious  jerk,  and  went  back  to  her  place,  while 
Barr-Saggott  was  trying  to  pretend  that  he  enjoyed 
snapping  the  bracelet  on  the  snubby  girl's  raw,  red  wrist. 
It  was  an  awkward  scene — most  awkward.  Every  one 
tried  to  depart  in  a  body  and  leave  Kitty  to  the  mercy  of 
her  Mamma. 

But  Cubbon  took  her  away  instead,  and — the  rest  isn't 
worth  printing. 


HAUNTED  SUBALTERNS 

So  long  as  the  '  Inextingnishables '  confined  themselves  to 
running  picnics,  g^nnkhanas,  flirtations  and  innocences  of 
that  kind,  no  one  said  anything.  But  when  they  ran 
ghosts,  people  put  up  their  eyebrows.  'Man  can't  feel 
comfy  with  a  regiment  that  entertains  ghosts  on  its  estab- 
lishment. It  is  agamst  General  Orders.  The  'Inextin- 
guishables'  said  that  the  ghosts  were  private  and  not 
Regimental  property.  They  referred  you  to  Tesser  for 
particulars;  and  Tesser  told  you  to  go  to — the  hottest 
cantonment  of  all.  He  said  that  it  was  bad  enough  to 
have  men  making  hay  of  his  bedding  and  breaking  his 
banjo-strings  when  he  was  out,  without  being  chaffed 
afterwards;  and  he  would  thank  you  to  keep  your  re- 
marks on  ghosts  to  yourself.  This  was  before  the  '  Inex- 
tinguishables*  had  sworn  by  their  several  lady-loves  that 
they  were  innocent  of  any  intrusion  into  Tesser's  quarters. 
Then  Horrocks  mentioned  casually  at  Mess,  that  a  couple 
of  white  figures  had  been  bounding  about  his  room  the 
night  before,  and  he  didn't  approve  of  it.  The  'Inex- 
tinguishables'  denied,  energetically,  that  they  had  had 
any  hand  in  the  manifestations,  and  advised  Horrocks  to 
consult  Tesser. 

I  don't  suppose  that  a  Subaltern  believes  in  anything 
except  his  chances  of  a  Company;  but  Horrocks  and 
Tesser  were  exceptions.  They  came  to  believe  in  their 
ghosts.    They  had  reason. 

64 


HAUNTED  SUBALTERNS  6j 

Horrocks  used  to  find  himself,  at  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  staring  wide-awake,  watching  two  white 
Things  hopping  about  his  room  and  jumping  up  to  the 
ceiling.  Horrocks  was  of  a  placid  turn  of  mind.  After  a 
week  or  so  spent  in  watching  his  servants,  and  lying  in 
wait  for  strangers,  and  trying  to  keep  awake  all  night,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  haunted,  and  that, 
consequently,  he  need  not  bother.  He  wasn't  going  to  en- 
courage these  ghosts  by  being  frightened  of  them.  There- 
fore, when  he  woke — as  usual — with  a  start  and  saw  these 
Things  jumping  like  kangaroos,  he  only  murmured: — *  Go 
on !    Don't  mind  me ! '  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

Tesser  said: — 'It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  make  fun  of 
your  show.  You  can  see  your  ghosts.  Now  I  can't  see 
mine,  and  I  don't  half  like  it.' 

Tesser  used  to  come  into  his  room  of  nights,  and  find 
the  whole  of  his  bedding  neatly  stripped,  as  if  it  had  been 
done  with  one  sweep  of  the  hand,  from  the  top  right-hand 
corner  of  the  charpoy  to  the  bottom  left-hand  corner. 
Also  his  lamp  used  to  He  weltering  on  the  floor,  and 
generally  his  pet  screw-head,  inlaid,  nickel-plated  banjo 
was  lying  on  the  charpoy,  with  all  its  strings  broken. 
Tesser  took  away  the  strings,  on  the  occasion  of  the  third 
manifestation,  and  the  next  night  a  man  complimented 
him  on  his  playing  the  best  music  ever  got  out  of  a  banjo, 
for  half  an  hour. 

*  Which  half  hour? '  said  Tesser. 

'Between  nine  and  ten,'  said  the  man.  Tesser  had 
gone  out  to  dinner  at  7 :3o,  and  had  returned  at  mid- 
night. 

He  talked  to  his  bearer  and  threatened  him  with  un- 
speakable things.    The  bearer  was  gray  with  fear:— 


66  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

'I'm  a  poor  man/  said  he.  ^ If  the  Sahib  is  haunted  by  a 
Devil,  what  can  I  do? ' 

'  Who  says  I'm  haunted  by  a  Devil? '  howled  Tesser,  for 
he  was  angry. 

*I  have  seen  It,'  said  the  bearer,  'at  night,  walking 
round  and  round  your  bed ;  and  that  is  why  everything 
is  ulta-puUa  in  your  room.  I  am  a  poor  man,  but  I  never 
go  into  your  room  alone.     The  bhisti  comes  with  me.' 

Tesser  was  thoroughly  savage  at  this,  and  he  spoke  to 
Horrocks,  and  the  two  laid  traps  to  catch  that  Devil,  and 
threatened  their  servants  with  dog-whips  if  any  more 
* shaitan-ke-h?ii]ky-p2inky  ^  took  place.  But  the  servants 
were  soaked  with  fear,  and  it  was  no  use  adding  to  their 
tortures.  When  Tesser  went  out  at  night,  four  f  his  men, 
as  a  rule,  slept  in  the  verandah  of  his  quarters,  until  the 
banjo  without  the  strings  struck  up,  and  then  they  fled. 

One  day,  Tesser  had  to  put  in  a  month  at  a  Fort  with  a 
detachment  of '  Inextinguishables.'  The  Fort  might  have 
been  Govindghar,  Jumrood,  or  Phillour;  but  it  wasn't.  He 
left  Cantonments  rejoicing,  for  his  Devil  was  preying  on 
his  mind;  and  with  him  went  another  Subaltern,  a  junior. 
But  the  Devil  came  too.  After  Tesser  had  been  in  the 
Fort  about  ten  days  he  went  out  to  dinner.  When  he  came 
back  he  found  his  Subaltern  doing  sentry  on  a  ban- 
quette across  the  Fort  Ditch,  as  far  removed  as  might  be 
from  the  Officers'  Quarters. 

^What's  wrong?'  said  Tesser. 

The  Subaltern  said,  'Listen!'  and  the  two,  standing 
under  the  stars,  heard  from  the  Officers'  Quarters,  high 
up  in  the  wall  of  the  Fort,  the  'strumty  tumty  tutnty* 
of  the  banjo;  which  seemed  to  have  an  oratorio  on  hand. 

'That  performance,'  said  the  Subaltern,  'has  been 


HAUNTED  SUBALTERNS  67 

going  on  for  three  mortal  hours.     I  never  wished  to 
desert  before,  but  I  do  now.     I  say,  Tesser,  old  man, 
you  are  the  best  of  good  fellows,  I'm  sure,  but    .     .  - .  "l  >, 
say    .     .     .     look  here,  now,  you  are  quite  unfit  to  live   ^ 
with.     'Tisn't  in  my  Commission,  you  know,  that  I'm 
to  serve  under  a     .     .     .     a     .     .     .    man  with  Devils.' 

'  Isn't  it? '  said  Tesser.  '  If  you  make  an  ass  of  yourself 
I'll  put  you  under  arrest     .     .     .     smdinmyroomr 

^You  can  put  me  where  you  please,  but  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  assist  at  these  infernal  concerts.  'Tisn't  right. 
'Tisn't  natural.  Look  here,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings,  but — try  to  think  now — haven't  you  done 
something — committed  some — murder  that  has  slipped 
your  memory— or  forged  something     .     .     .     ?' 

'Weill  For  an  all-round,  double-shotted,  half-baked 
fool  you  are  the    .     .     .' 

*I  dare  say  I  am,'  said  the  Subaltern.  'But  you  don't 
expect  me  to  keep  my  wits  with  that  row  going  on,  do 
you?' 

The  banjo  was  rattling  away  as  if  it  had  twenty  strmgs. 
Tesser  sent  up  a  stone,  and  a  shower  of  broken  window- 
pane  fell  into  the  Fort  Ditch;  but  the  banjo  kept  on. 
Tesser  hauled  the  other  Subaltern  up  to  the  quarters,  and 
lound  his  room  in  frightful  confusion — lamp  upset,  bed- 
ding all  over  the  floor,  chairs  overturned,  and  table  tilted 
sideways.  He  took  stock  of  the  wreck  and  said  despair- 
mg: — 'Oh,  this  is  lovely!' 

The  Subaltern  was  peeping  in  at  the  door. 

*I'm  glad  you  think  so,'  he  said.  "Tisn't  lovely 
enough  for  me.  I  locked  up  your  room  directly  after 
you  had  gone  out.  See  here,  I  think  you  had  better 
apply  for  Horrocks  to  come  out  in  my  place.    He's 


66  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

troubled  with  your  complaint,  and  this  business  will 
make  me  a  jabbering  idiot  if  it  goes  on.' 

Tesser  went  to  bed  amid  the  wreckage,  very  angry, 
and  next  morning  he  rode  into  Cantonments  and  asked 
Horrocks  to  arrange  to  reHeve  '  that  fool  with  me  now/ 

*  You've  got  'em  again,  have  you?'  said  Horrocks. 
'So've  I.  Three  white  figures  this  time.  We'll  worry 
through  the  entertainment  together.' 

So  Horrocks  and  Tesser  settled  down  in  the  Fort  to^ 
gether,  and  the  '  Inextinguishables'  said  pleasant  things 
about  *  seven  other  Devils.'  Tesser  didn't  see  where 
the  joke  came  in.  His  room  was  thrown  upside-down 
three  nights  out  of  seven.  Horrocks  was  not  troubled 
In  any  way,  so  his  ghosts  must  have  been  purely  local 
ones.  Tesser,  on  the  other  hand,  was  personally  haunted; 
for  his  Devil  had  moved  with  liim  from  Cantonments 
to  the  Fort.  Those  two  boys  spent  three  parts  of  their 
time  trying  to  find  out  who  was  responsible  for  the  riot 
in  Tesser's  rooms.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  they  tried  to 
find  out  what  was  responsible;  and  seven  days  later  they 
gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job.  Whatever  It  was.  It  refused  to 
be  caught;  even  when  Tesser  went  out  of  the  Fort  os- 
tentatiously, and  Horrocks  lay  under  Tesser's  charpoy 
with  a  revolver.  The  servants  were  afraid— more 
afraid  than  ever— and  all  the  evidence  showed  that  they 
had  been  playing  no  tricks.  As  Tesser  said  to  Horrocks: 
—'A  haunted  Subaltern  is  a  joke,  but  s'pose  this  keeps 
on.  Just  think  what  a  haunted  Colonel  would  be !  And 
look  here— s'pose  I  marry!  D'you  s'pose  a  girl  would 
Uve  a  week  with  me  and  this  Devil?' 

*I  don't  know,'  said  Horrocks.  'I  haven't  married 
often;  but  I  knew  a  woman  once  who  lived  with  her 


HAUNTED  SUBALTERNS  69 

husband  when  he  had  D.  T.  He's  dead  now,  and  I 
dare  say  she  would  marry  you  if  you  asked  her.  She 
isn't  exactly  a  girl  though,  but  she  has  a  large  experi- 
ence of  the  other  devils — the  blue  variety.  She's  a 
Government  pensioner  now,  and  you  might  write, 
y'know.  Personally,  if  I  hadn't  suffered  from  ghosts  of 
my  own,  I  should  rather  avoid  you.' 

'That's  just  the  point,'  said  Tesser.  'This  Devil 
thing  will  end  in  getting  me  budnamed,  and  you  know 
I've  lived  on  lemon-squashes  and  gone  to  bed  at  ten  for 
weeks  past.' 

"Tisn't  that  sort  of  Devil,'  said  Horrocks.  'It's 
either  a  first-class  fraud  for  which  some  one  ought  to 
be  killed,  or  else  you've  offended  one  of  these  Indian 
Devils.  It  stands  to  reason  that  such  a  beastly  country 
should  be  full  of  fiends  of  all  sorts.' 

'But  why  should  the  creature  fix  on  me/  said  Tesser, 
'and  why  won't  he  show  himself  and  have  it  out  like  a — 
like  a  Devil?' 

They  were  talking  outside  the  Mess  after  dark,  and, 
even  as  they  spoke,  they  heard  the  banjo  begin  to  play 
in  Tesser's  room,  about  twenty  yards  off. 

Horrocks  ran  to  his  own  quarters  for  a  shot-gun  and 
a  revolver,  and  Tesser  and  he  crept  up  quietly,  the 
banjo  still  playing,  to  Tesser's  door. 

'Now  we've  got  It!'  said  Horrocks,  as  he  threw  the 
door  open  and  let  fly  with  the  twelve-bore;  Tesser 
squibbing  off  all  six  barrels  into  the  dark,  as  hard  as  he 
could  pull  trigger. 

The  furniture  was  ruined,  and  the  whole  Fort  was 
awake ;  but  that  was  aU.  No  one  had  been  killed,  and  the 
banjo  was  lying  on  the  dishevelled  bed-clothes  as  usual. 


70  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Then  Tesser  sat  down  in  the  verandah,  and  used  lan- 
guage that  would  have  qualified  him  for  the  companion- 
ship of  unlimited  Devils.  Horrocks  said  things  too;  but 
Tesser  said  the  worst. 

When  the  month  in  the  Fort  came  to  an  end,  both 
Horrocks  and  Tesser  were  glad.  They  held  a  final 
council  of  war,  but  came  to  no  conclusion. 

*  'Seems  to  me,  your  best  plan  would  be  to  make  your 
Devil  stretch  himseK.  Go  down  to  Bombay  with  the 
time-expired  men,^  said  Horrocks.  ^If  he  really  is  a 
Devil,  he'll  come  in  the  train  with  you.' 

**Tisn't  good  enough,'  said  Tesser.  *  Bombay's  no 
fit  place  to  live  in  at  this  time  of  the  year.  But  I'll 
put  in  for  Depot  duty  at  the  Hills.'    And  he  did. 

Now  here  the  tale  rests.  The  Devil  stayed  below, 
and  Tesser  went  up  and  was  free.  If  I  had  invented 
this  story,  I  should  have  put  in  a  satisfactory  ending — 
explained  the  manifestations  as  somebody's  practical 
joke.  My  business  being  to  keep  to  facts,  I  can  only 
say  what  I  have  said.  The  Devil  may  have  been  a 
hoax.  If  so,  it  was  one  of  the  best  ever  arranged.  If 
it  was  not  a  hoax  .  .  .  but  you  must  settle  that  for 
yourselves. 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS 

An'  when  the  war  began,  we  chased  the  bold  Afghan, 
An'  we  made  the  bloomin'  Ghazi  for  to  flee,  boys  01 
An'  we  marched  mto  Kaiul,  an'  we  tuk  the  Balar  'Issar 
An'  we  taught  'em  to  respec'  the  British  Soldier. 

— Barrack  Room  Ballad, 

MuLVANEY,  Ortheris,  and  Learoyd  are  Privates  in 
B  Company  of  a  Line  Regiment,  and  personal  friends 
of  mine.  Collectively  I  think,  but  am  not  certain, 
they  are  the  worst  men  in  the  regiment  so  far  as  genial 
blackguardism  goes. 

They  told  me  this  story,  in  the  Umballa  Refreshment 
Room  while  we  were  waiting  for  an  up-train.  I  supplied 
the  beer.    The  tale  was  cheap  at  a  gallon  and  a  half. 

All  men  know  Lord  Benira  Trig.  He  is  a  Duke, 
or  an  Earl,  or  something  unofficial;  also  a  Peer;  also  a 
Globe-trotter.  On  all  three  counts,  as  Ortheris  says, 
*  'e  didn't  deserve  no  consideration.'  He  was  out  in 
India  for  three  months  collecting  materials  for  a  book 
on  ^Our  Eastern  Impedimenta,'  and  quartering  himself 
upon  everybody,  like  a  Cossack  in  evening-dress. 

His  particular  vice — because  he  was  a  Radical,  men 
said — was  having  garrisons  turned  out  for  his  inspection. 
He  would  then  dine  with  the  Officer  Commanding,  and 
insult  him,  across  the  Mess  table,  about  the  appearance 
of  the  troops.    That  was  Benira's  way. 

71 


72  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

He  turned  out  troops  once  too  often.  He  came  to 
Helanthami  Cantonment  on  a  Tuesday.  He  wished 
to  go  shopping  in  the  bazars  on  Wednesday,  and  he 
Mesired'  the  troops  to  be  turned  out  on  a  Thursday. 
On — a — Thursday.  The  Officer  Commanding  could  not 
well  refuse;  for  Benira  was  a  Lord.  There  was  an  in- 
dignation-meeting of  subalterns  in  the  Mess  Room,  to 
call  the  Colonel  pet  names. 

'But  the  rale  dimonstrashin,^  said  Mulvaney,  'was 
in  B  Comp'ny  barrack;  we  three  headin'  it.' 

Mulvaney  climbed  on  to  the  refreshment-bar,  settled 
himself  comfortably  by  the  beer,  and  went  on,  'Whin  the 
row  was  at  ut's  foinest  an'  B  Comp'ny  was  fur  goin'  out 
to  murther  this  man  Thrigg  on  the  p'rade-groun',  Learoyd 
here  takes  up  his  helmut  an'  sez, — 'fwhat  was  ut  ye  said? ' 

'Ah  said,'  said  Learoyd,  'gie  us  t'  brass.  Tak'  oop 
a  subscripshun,  lads,  for  to  put  off  t'  p'rade,  an'  if  t' 
p'rade's  not  put  off,  ah'U  gie  t'  brass  back  agean.  Thot's 
wot  ah  said.  All  B  Coomp'ny  knawed  me.  Ah  took 
oop  a  big  subscripshun — fower  rupees  eight  annas  'twas 
— an'  ah  went  oot  to  turn  t'  job  over.  Mulvaney  an' 
Orth'ris  coom  with  me.' 

'We  three  raises  the  Divil  in  couples  gin'rally,'  ex- 
plained Mulvaney. 

Here  Ortheris  interrupted.  "Ave  you  read  the 
papers? '  said  he. 

'Sometimes,'  I  said. 

'We  'ad  read  the  papers,  an'  we  put  hup  a  faked 
decoity,  a — a  sedukshun.' 

'^Mukshin,  ye  cockney,'  said  Mulvaney. 

'^Wukshun  or  ^^dukshun — no  great  odds.  Any'ow, 
we  arranged  to  talk  an'  put  Mister  Benhira  out  o'  the 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS  73 

way  till  Thursday  was  hover,  or  'e  too  busy  to  rux 
'isself  about  p'raids.  Hi  was  the  man  wot  said,  ^' We'll 
make  a  few  rupees  off  o'  the  business.'" 

*We  hild  a  Council  av  War,'  continued  Mulvaney, 
*walkin'  roun'  by  the  Artill'ry  Lines.  I  was  Prisidint, 
Learoyd  was  Minister  av  Finance,  an'   little  Orth'ris 

here  was ' 

'A  bloomin'  Bismarck!  Hi  made  the  'ole  show  pay.' 
'This  interferin'  bit  av  a  Benira  man,'  said  Mulvaney, 
Mid  the  thrick  for  us  himself;  for,  on  me  sowl,  we  hadn't 
a  notion  av  what  was  to  come  afther  the  next  minut. 
He  was  shoppin'  in  the  bazar  on  fut.  'Twas  dhrawin' 
dusk  thin,  an'  we  stud  watchin'  the  Httle  man  hoppin'  in 
an'  out  av  the  shops,  thryin'  to  injuce  the  naygurs  to 
mallum  his  hat.  Prisintly,  he  sthrols  up,  his  arrums  full 
av  thruck,  an'  he  sez  in  a  consiquinshal  way,  shticking 
out  his  Httle  belly,  ''Me  good  men,"  sez  he,  "have  ye 
seen  the  Kernel's  b'roosh?"— "B'roosh?"  sez  Learoyd. 
"There's  no  b'roosh  here— nobbut  a  ^e^^^."— "Fwhat's 
that?"  sez  Thrigg.  Learoyd  shows  him  wan  down  the 
sthreet,  an'  he  sez,  "How  thruly  Orientil!  I  will  ride  on  a 
hekka.''  I  saw  thin  that  our  Rigimintal  Saint  was  for 
givin'  Thrigg  over  to  us  neck  an'  brisket.  I  purshued  a 
hekka,  an'  I  sez  to  the  dhriver-divil,  I  sez,  "Ye  black  limb, 
there's  a  Sahib  comin'  for  this  hekka.  He  wants  to  go 
jildi  to  the  Padsahi  Jhil"— 'twas  about  tu  moiles  away 
— "to  shoot  snipe — chirria.  You  dhrive  Jehannum 
ke  marfik,  mallum— Wq  Hell?  'Tis  no  manner  av  use 
hukkin'  to  the  Sahib,  bekaze  he  doesn't  samjao  your  talk. 
Av  he  bolos  anything,  just  you  choop  and  chel.  Dekker? 
Go  arsty  for  the  first  arder-mile  from  cantonmints. 
Thin  chel,  Shaitan  ke  marfik,  an'  the  chooper  you  choops 


74  I»LAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

an'  the  jildier  you  chels  the  better  kooshy  will  that 
Sahib  be;  an'  here's  a  rupee  for  ye?" 

*The  hekka-maii  knew  there  was  somethin*  out  av 
the  common  in  the  air.  He  grinned  an'  sez,  ^'Bote 
achee  I  I  goin'  damn  fast."  I  prayed  that  the  Kernel's 
b'roosh  wudn't  arrive  till  me  darUn'  Benira  by  the 
grace  av  God  was  undher  weigh.  The  little  man  puts 
his  thruck  into  the  hekka  an'  scuttles  in  like  a  fat  guinea- 
pig;  niver  offerin'  us  the  price  av  a  dhrink  for  our  services 
in  helpin'  him  home.  *'He's  off  to  the  Padsahi  j^f/," 
sez  I  to  the  others.' 

Ortheris  took  up  the  tale — 

'Jist  then,  little  Buldoo  kim  up,  'oo  was  the  son  of 
one  of  the  Artillery  grooms — 'e  would  'av  made  a  'evinly 
newspaper-boy  in  London,  bein'  sharp  an'  fly  to  all  man- 
ner o'  games.  'E  'ad  bin  watchin'  us  puttin'  Mister  Ben- 
hira  into  'is  temporary  baroush,  an'  'e  sez,  ''What  ^ave 
you  been  a  doin'  of,  Sahibs  ?  "  sez  'e.  Learoyd  'e  caught 
'im  by  the  ear  an'  'e  sez — ' 

'Ah  says,'  went  on  Learoyd,  '"Young  mon,  that  mon's 
gooin'  to  have  t'  goons  out  o'  Thursday — to-morrow — 
an'  thot's  more  work  for  you,  young  mon.  Now,  sitha, 
tak'  a  tat  an'  a  lookri,  an'  ride  tha  domdest  to  t'  Padsahi 
Jhil.  Cotch  thot  there  hekka,  and  tell  t'  driver  iv  your 
lingo  thot  you've  coom  to  tak'  his  place.  T'  Sahib 
doesn't  speak  t'  bat,  an'  he's  a  little  mon.  Drive  t' 
hekka  into  t'  Padsahi  Jhil  into  t'  watter.  Leave  t'  Sahib 
theer  an'  roon  hoam;  an'  here's  a  rupee  for  tha.'" 

Then  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  spoke  together  in  alter- 
nate fragments:  Mulvaney  leading  [you  must  pick 
out  the  two  speakers  as  best  you  can]: — 'He  was  a 
knowin'  little  divil  was  Bhuldoo, — 'e  sez  bote  achee  an' 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS  75 

cuts — wid  a  wink  in  his  oi — but  Ei  sez  there's  money 
to  be  made — an'  I  wanted  to  see  the  ind  av  the  cam- 
paign— so  Ei  says  we'll  double  hout  to  the  Padsahi 
Jhil — an'  save  the  Uttle  man  from  bein'  dacoited  by 
the  murtherin'  Bhuldoo— an'  turn  hup  Uke  reskooers 
in  a  Vic'oria  Melodrama — so  we  doubled  for  the  jhily 
an'  prisintly  there  was  the  divil  av  a  hurroosh  behind 
us  an'  three  bhoys  on  grasscuts'  ponies  come  by,  poundin' 
along  for  the  dear  life— s'elp  me  Bob,  hif  Buldoo  'adn't 
raised  a  rig'lar  harmy  of  decoits — to  do  the  job  in  shtile. 
An'  we  ran,  an'  they  ran,  shpUttin'  with  laughin',  till  we 
gets  near  the  jhil — and  'ears  sounds  of  distress  floatin' 
molloncolly  on  the  hevenin'  hair.'  [Ortheris  was  grow- 
ing poetical  under  the  influence  of  the  beer.  The  duet 
recommenced:  Mulvaney  leading  again.] 

'Thin  we  heard  Bhuldoo,  the  dacoit,  shoutin'  to  the 
hekka  man,  an'  wan  of  the  young  divils  brought  his 
stick  down  on  the  top  av  the  hekka-cower,  an'  Benira 
Thrigg  inside  howled  ''Murther  an'  Death."  Buldoo 
takes  the  reins  and  dhrives  like  mad  for  the  jhil,  havin' 
dishpersed  the  hekka-dtinvQi — 'oo  cum  up  to  us  an'  'e 
sez,  sez  'e,  ''That  Sahib's  nigh  mad  with  funk!  Wot 
devil's  work  'ave  you  led  me  into?"— "Hall  right,"  sez 
we,  "you  catch  that  there  pony  an'  come  along.  This 
Sahib's  been  decoited,  an'  we're  going  to  resky  'im!" 
Says  the  driver,  "Decoits!  Wot  decoits?  That's  Buldoo 
the  budmash''— ''Bhuldoo  be  shot!"  sez  we.  "'Tis  a 
woild  dissolute  Pathan  frum  the  hills.  There's  about 
eight  av  thim  coerdn'  the  Sahib.  You  remimber  that  an' 
you'll  get  another  rupee!"  Thin  we  heard  the  whop- 
whop-whop  av  the  hekka  turnin'  over,  an'  a  splash  av 
water  m'  the  voice  av  Benira  Thrigg  callin'  upon  God 


76  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

to  forgive  his  sins — an'  Buldoo  an'  'is  friends  squotterin* 
in  the  water  like  boys  in  the  Serpentine.' 

Here  the  Three  Musketeers  retired  simultaneously  into 
the  beer. 

'Well?    What  came  next?'  said  I. 

*Fwhat  nex'?'  answered  Mulvaney,  wiping  his  mouth. 
*Wud  ye  let  three  bould  sodger-bhoys  lave  the  ornamint 
av  the  House  av  Lords  to  be  dhrowned  an'  dacoited  in  a 
jhil  ?  We  formed  line  av  quarther-column  an'  we  dis- 
cinded  upon  the  inimy.  For  the  better  part  av  ten  min- 
utes you  could  not  hear  yerself  spake.  The  tattoo  was 
screamin'  in  chune  wid  Benira  Thrigg  an'  Bhuldoo's 
army,  an'  the  shticks  was  whistlin'  roun'  the  hekka, 
an'  Orth'ris  was  beatin'  the  hekka-cover  wid  his  fistes, 
an'  Learoyd  yellin',  ''Look  out  for  their  knives!"  an'  me 
cuttin'  into  the  dark,  right  an'  lef,  dishpersin.'  arrmy 
corps  av  Pathans.  Holy  Mother  av  Moses!  'twas  more 
disp'rit  than  Ahmid  Kheyl  wid  Maiwund  thrown  in. 
Afther  a  while  Bhuldoo  an'  his  bhoys  flees.  Have  ye 
iver  seen  a  rale  live  Lord  thryin'  to  hide  his  nobility 
undher  a  fut  an'  a  half  av  brown  swamp- wather?  'Tis 
the  Uvin'  image  av  a  water-carrier's  goatskin  wid  the 
shivers.  It  tuk  toime  to  pershuade  me  frind  Benira 
he  was  not  disimbo willed :  an'  more  toime  to  get  out 
the  hekka.  The  dhriver  come  up  afther  the  battle, 
swearin'  he  tuk  a  hand  in  repulsin'  the  inimy.  Benira 
was  sick  wid  the  fear.  We  escorted  him  back,  very 
slow,  to  cantonmints,  for  that  an'  the  chill  to  soak  into 
him.  It  suk!  Glory  be  to  the  Rigimintil  Saint,  but 
it  suk  to  the  marrow  av  Lord  Benira  Thrigg!' 

Here  Ortheris,  slowly,  with  immense  pride — "E 
sez,  "You  har  my  noble  preservers,"  sez  'e.    "You  har 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS  77 

a  honour  to  the  British  Harmy,"  sez  'e.  With  that  'e 
describes  the  hawful  band  of  dacoits  wot  set  on  'im. 
There  was  about  forty  of  'em  an'  'e  was  hoverpowered 
by  numbers,  so  'e  was;  but  'e  never  lorst  'is  presence 
of  mind,  so  'e  didn't.  'E  guv  the  A^^^a-driver  five 
rupees  for  'is  noble  assistance,  an'  'e  said  'e  would  see 
to  us  after  'e  'ad  spoken  to  the  Kernul.  For  we  was  a 
honour  to  the  Regiment,  we  was.' 

'An'  we  three,'  said  Mulvaney,  with  a  seraphic  smile, 
'have  dhrawn  the  par-ti-cu-lar  attinshin  av  Bobs  Baha- 
dur more  than  wanst.  But  he's  a  rale  good  little  man 
is  Bobs.     Go  on,  Orth'ris,  my  son.' 

'Then  we  leaves  'im  at  the  Kernul's  'ouse,  werry 
sick,  an'  we  cuts  hover  to  B  Comp'ny  barrick  an'  we 
sez  we  'ave  saved  Benira  from  a  bloody  doom,  an'  the 
chances  was  agin  there  bein'  p'raid  on  Thursday.  About 
ten  minutes  later  come  three  enveHcks,  one  for  each  oi 
us.  S'elp  me  Bob,  if  the  old  bloke  'adn't  guv  us  a  fiver 
apiece— sixty-four  rupees  in  the  bazar!  On  Thursday 
'e  was  in  'orspital  recoverin'  from  'is  sanguinary  en- 
counter with  a  gang  of  Pathans,  an'  B  Comp'ny  was 
drinkin'  'emselves  into  Clink  by  squads.  So  there  never 
was  no  Thursday  p'raid.  But  the  Kernul,  when  'e  'eard 
of  our  galliant  conduct,  'e  sez,  ''Hi  know  there's  been 
some  devihy  somewheres,"  sez  'e,  "but  I  can't  bring  it 
'ome  to  you  three." ' 

'An'  my  privit  imprisshin  is,'  said  Mulvaney,  getting 
off  the  bar  and  turning  his  glass  upside  down,  'that, 
av  they  had  known  they  wudn't  have  brought  ut  home. 
'Tis  flyin'  in  the  face,  firstly  av  Nature,  secon'  av  the 
Rig'lations,  an'  third  the  will  av  Terence  Mulvaney,  to 
hold  p'rades  av  Thursdays.' 


78  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

'Good,  ma  son!^  said  Learoydj  'but,  young  mon, 
what's  t'  notebook  for? ' 

'Let  be/  said  Mulvaney;  'this  time  next  month  we're 
in  the  SJterapis.  'Tis  immortial  fame  the  gentleman's 
goin'  to  give  us.  But  kape  it  dhark  till  we're  out  av  the 
range  av  me  little  frind  Bobs  Bahadur.' 

And  I  have  obeyed  Mulvaney's  order. 


HIS  CHANCE  IN  LIFE 

Then  a  pile  of  heads  he  laid — 
Thirty  thousands  heaped  on  high — 

All  to  please  the  Kafir  maid, 
Where  the  Oxus  ripples  by. 

Grimly  spake  AtuUa  Elhan: — 
'Love  hath  made  this  thing  a  Man.' 

— Oatta's  Story. 

If  you  go  straight  away  from  Levees  and  Government 
House  Lists,  past  Trades'  Balls — far  beyond  everything 
and  everybody  you  ever  knew  in  your  respectable  Hfe 
— you  cross,  in  time,  the  Borderline  where  the  last 
drop  of  White  blood  ends  and  the  full  tide  of  Black 
sets  in.  It  would  be  easier  to  talk  to  a  new-made 
Duchess  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  than  to  the  Bor- 
derline folk  without  violating  some  of  their  conventions 
or  hurting  their  feelings.  The  Black  and  the  White 
mix  very  quaintly  in  their  ways.  Sometimes  the  White 
shows  in  spurts  of  fierce,  childish  pride — which  is  Pride 
of  Race  run  crooked — and  sometimes  the  Black  in  stiU 
fiercer  abasement  and  humility,  half -heathenish  customs, 
and  strange  unaccountable  impulses  to  crime.  One  of 
these  days,  this  people — understand  they  are  far  lower 
than  the  class  whence  Derozio,  the  man  who  imitated 
Byron,  sprung — will  turn  out  a  writer  or  a  poet;  and  then 
we  shall  know  how  they  live  and  what  they  feel.  In  the 
meantime,  any  stories  about  them  cannot  be  absolutely 
correct  in  fact  or  inference. 


8o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Miss  Vezzis  came  from  across  the  Borderline  to  look 
after  some  children  who  belonged  to  a  lady  until  a 
regularly  ordained  nurse  could  come  out.  The  lady 
said  Miss  Vezzis  was  a  bad,  dirty  nurse,  and  inatteu; 
tive.  It  never  struck  her  that  Miss  Vezzis  had  her  own 
life  to  lead  and  her  own  affairs  to  worry  over,  and  that 
these  affairs  were  the  most  important  things  in  the 
world  to  Miss  Vezzis.  Very  few  mistresses  admit  this 
sort  of  reasoning.  Miss  Vezzis  was  as  black  as  a  boot, 
and,  to  our  standard  of  taste,  hideously  ugly.  She  wore 
cotton-print  gowns  and  bulged  shoes;  and  when  she  lost 
her  temper  with  the  children,  she  abused  them  in  the 
language  of  the  Borderline — which  is  part  EngHsh,  part 
Portuguese,  and  part  Native.  She  was  not  attractive; 
but  she  had  her  pride,  and  she  preferred  being  called 
'Miss  Vezzis.' 

Every  Sunday,  she  dressed  herself  wonderfully  and 
went  to  see  her  Mamma,  who  lived,  foi  the  most  part,  on 
an  old  cane  chair  in  a  greasy  tussur-silk  dressing-gown  and 
a  big  rabbit-warren  of  a  house  full  of  Vezzises,  Pereiras, 
Ribieras,  Lisboas  and  Gonsalveses,  and  a  floating  popula- 
tion of  loafers;  besides  fragments  of  the  day's  market, 
garlic,  stale  incense,  clothes  thrown  on  the  floor,  petti- 
coats hung  on  strings  for  screens,  old  bottles,  pewter 
crucifixes,  dried  immortelles,  pariah  puppies,  plaster 
images  of  the  Virgin,  and  hats  without  crowns.  Miss 
Vezzis  drew  twenty  rupees  a  month  for  acting  as  nurse, 
and  she  squabbled  weekly  with  her  Mamma  as  to  the  per- 
centage to  be  given  towards  housekeeping.  When  the 
quarrel  was  over,  Michele  D'Cruze  used  to  shamble 
across  the  low  mud  wall  of  the  compound  and  make  love 
to  Miss  Vezzis  after  the  fashion  of  the  Borderline,  which 


HIS  CHANCE  IN  LIFE  81 

is  hedged  about  with  much  ceremony.  Michele  was  a  poor, 
sickly  weed,  and  very  black;  but  he  had  his  pride.  He 
would  not  be  seen  smoking  a  huqa  for  anything;  and  he 
looked  down  on  natives  as  only  a  man  with  seven-eighths 
native  blood  in  his  veins  can.  The  Vezzis  Family  had 
their  pride  too.  They  traced  their  descent  from  a  my- 
thical platelayer  who  had  worked  on  the  Sone  Bridge  when 
railways  were  new  in  India,  and  they  valued  their  English 
origin.  Michele  was  a  Telegraph  Signaller  on  Rs.  35  a 
month.  The  fact  that  he  was  in  Government  employ 
made  Mrs.  Vezzis  lenient  to  the  shortcomings  of  his 
ancestors. 

There  was  a  compromising  legend — Dom  Anna  the 
tailor  brought  it  from  Poonani — that  a  black  Jew  of 
Cochin  had  once  married  into  the  D'Cruze  family;  while 
it  was  an  open  secret  that  an  uncle  of  Mrs.  D'Cruze  was, 
at  that  very  time,  doing  menial  work,  connected  with 
cooking,  for  a  Club  in  Southern  India!  He  sent  Mrs. 
D'Cruze  seven  rupees  eight  annas  a  month;  but  she  felt 
the  disgrace  to  the  family  very  keenly  all  the  same. 

However,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  Mrs.  Vezzis 
brought  herself  to  overlook  these  blemishes  and  gave  her 
consent  to  the  marriage  of  her  daughter  with  Michele,  on 
condition  that  Michele  should  have  at  least  fifty  rupees 
a  month  to  start  married  life  upon.  This  wonderful 
prudence  must  have  been  a  lingering  touch  of  the  mythi- 
cal platelayer's  Yorkshire  blood;  for  across  the  Border- 
line people  take  a  pride  in  marrying  when  they  please- 
not  when  they  can. 

Having  regard  to  his  departmental  prospects.  Miss 
Vezzis  might  as  well  have  asked  Michele  to  go  away  and 
come  back  with  the  Moon  in  his  pocket.     But  Michele 


$2  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS  ^ 

was  deeply  in  love  with  Miss  Vezzis,  and  that  helped  him 
to  endure.  He  accompanied  Miss  Vezzis  to  Mass  one 
Sunday,  and  after  Mass,  walking  home  through  the  hot 
stale  dust  with  her  hand  in  his,  he  swore  by  several  Saints 
whose  names  would  not  interest  you,  never  to  forget  Miss 
Vezzis;  and  she  swore  by  her  Honour  and  the  Saints — the 
oath  runs  rather  curiously,  ^In  nomine  Sanctissimos — ' 
(whatever  the  name  of  the  she-Saint  is)  and  so  forth, 
ending  with  a  kiss  on  the  forehead,  a  kiss  on  the  left  cheek, 
and  a  kiss  on  the  mouth — never  to  forget  Michele. 

Next  week  Michele  was  transferred,  and  Miss  Vezzis 
dropped  tears  upon  the  window-sash  of  the  '  Intermedi- 
ate '  compartment  as  he  left  the  Station. 

If  you  look  at  the  telegraph-map  of  India  you  will  see  a 
long  line  skirting  the  coast  from  Backergunge  to  Madras. 
Michele  was  ordered  to  Tibasu,  a  little  Sub-ofhce  one- 
third  down  this  Hne,  to  send  messages  on  from  Berhampur 
to  Chicacola,  and  to  think  of  Miss  Vezzis  and  his  chances 
of  getting  fifty  rupees  a  month  out  of  office-hours.  He 
had  the  noise  of  the  Bay  of  Bengal  and  a  Bengali  Babu 
for  company;  nothing  more.  He  sent  foolish  letters,  with 
crosses  tucked  inside  the  flaps  of  the  envelopes,  to  Miss 
Vezzis. 

When  he  had  been  at  Tibasu  for  nearly  three  weeks  his 
chance  came. 

Never  forget  that  unless  the  outward  and  visible  signs 
of  Our  Authority  are  always  before  a  native  he  is  as  in- 
capable as  a  child  of  understanding  what  authority 
means,  or  where  is  the  danger  of  disobeying  it.  Tibasu 
was  a  forgotten  Httle  place  with  a  few  Orissa  Mohamme- 
dans in  it.  These,  hearing  nothing  of  the  CoHector-S ahib 
for  some  time  and  heartily  despising  the  Hindu  Sub- Judge, 


fflS  CHANCE  IN  LIFE  «3 

arranged  to  start  a  little  Mohurrum  riot  of  their  own. 
But  the  Hindus  turned  out  and  broke  their  heads;  when, 
binding  lawlessness  pleasant,  Hindus  and  Mohammedans 
together  raised  an  aimless  sort  of  Donnybrook  just  to  see 
how  far  they  could  go.  They  looted  each  other's  shops, 
and  paid  off  private  grudges  in  the  regular  way.  It  was  a 
nasty  Uttle  riot,  but  not  worth  putting  in  the  newspapers. 

Michele  was  working  in  his  office  when  he  heard  the 
sound  that  a  man  never  forgets  all  his  life — the  'ah-yah^ 
of  an  angry  crowd.  [When  that  sound  drops  about  three 
tones,  and  changes  to  a  thick,  droning  ui,  the  man  who 
hears  it  had  better  go  away  if  he  is  alone.]  The  Native 
Police  Inspector  ran  in  and  told  Michele  that  the  town 
was  in  an  uproar  and  coming  to  wreck  the  Telegraph 
Office.  The  Babu  put  on  his  cap  and  quietly  dropped  out 
of  the  window;  while  the  PoUce  Inspector,  afraid,  but 
obeying  the  old  race-instinct  which  recognises  a  drop  of 
White  blood  as  far  as  it  can  be  diluted,  said,  'What  orders 
does  the  Sahib  give? ' 

The ' Sahib '  decided  Michele.  Though  horribly  fright- 
ened, he  felt  that,  for  the  hour,  he,  the  man  with  the 
Cochin  Jew  and  the  menial  uncle  in  his  pedigree,  was  the 
only  representative  of  EngHsh  authority  in  the  place. 
Then  he  thought  of  Miss  Vezzis  and  the  fifty  rupees,  and 
took  the  situation  on  himself.  There  were  seven  native 
policemen  in  Tibasu,  and  four  crazy  smooth-bore  muskets 
among  them.  All  the  men  were  gray  with  fear,  but  not 
beyond  leading.  Michele  dropped  the  key  of  the  tele- 
graph instrument,  and  went  out,  at  the  head  of  his  army, 
to  meet  the  mob.  As  the  shouting  crew  came  round  a 
corner  of  the  road,  he  dropped  and  fired;  the  men  behind 
him  loosing  instinctively  at  the  same  time. 


84  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

The  whole  crowd — curs  to  the  back-bone — yelled  and 
;an ;  leaving  one  man  dead,  and  another  dying  in  the  road. 
Michele  was  sweating  with  fear;  but  he  kept  his  weakness 
under,  and  went  down  into  the  town,  past  the  house  where 
the  Sub- Judge  had  barricaded  himself.  The  streets  were 
empty.  Tibasu  was  more  frightened  than  Michele,  for 
the  mob  had  been  taken  at  the  right  time. 

Michele  returned  to  the  Telegraph  Office,  and  sent  a 
message  to  Chicacola  asking  for  help.  Before  an  answer 
came,  he  received  a  deputation  of  the  elders  of  Tibasu, 
telHng  him  that  the  Sub- Judge  said  his  actions  generally 
were  '  unconstitutional,'  and  trying  to  bully  him.  But  the 
heart  of  Michele  D'Cruze  was  big  and  white  in  his  breast, 
because  of  his  love  for  Miss  Vezzis  the  nurse-girl,  and 
because  he  had  tasted  for  the  first  time  Responsibility  and 
Success.  Those  two  make  an  intoxicating  drink,  and  have 
ruined  more  men  than  ever  has  Whiskey.  Mic}iele  an- 
swered that  the  Sub- Judge  might  say  what  he  pleased,  but 
until  the  Assistant  Collector  came,  the  Telegraph 
Signaller  was  the  Government  of  India  in  Tibasu,  and  the 
elders  of  the  town  would  be  held  accountable  for  further 
rioting.  Then  they  bowed  their  heads  and  said:  'Show 
mercy!'  or  words  to  that  effect,  and  went  back  in  great 
fear;  each  accusing  the  other  of  having  begun  the  rioting. 

Early  in  the  dawn,  after  a  night's  patrol  with  his  seven 
policemen,  Michele  went  down  the  road,  musket  in  hand, 
to  meet  the  Assistant  Collector,  who  had  ridden  in  to 
quell  Tibasu.  But,  in  the  presence  of  this  young  English- 
man, Michele  felt  himself  slipping  back  more  and  more 
into  the  native;  and  the  tale  of  the  Tibasu  Riots  ended, 
with  the  strain  on  the  teller,  in  an  hysterical  outburst  of 
tears,  bred  by  sorrow  that  he  had  killed  a  man,  shame 


fflS  CHANCE  IN  LIFE  85 

that  he  could  not  feel  as  uplifted  as  he  had  felt  through 
the  night,  and  childish  anger  that  his  tongue  could  not  do 
justice  to  his  great  deeds.  It  was  the  White  drop  in 
Michele's  veins  dying  out,  though  he  did  not  know  it. 

But  the  Englishman  understood;  and,  after  he  had 
schooled  those  men  of  Tibasu,  and  had  conferred  with  the 
Sub- Judge  till  that  excellent  official  turned  green,  he 
found  time  to  draft  an  official  letter  describing  the  con- 
duct of  Michele.  Which  letter  filtered  through  the  Proper 
Channels,  and  ended  in  the  transfer  of  Michele  up-country 
once  more,  on  the  Imperial  salary  of  sixty-six  rupees  a 
month. 

So  he  and  Miss  Vezzis  were  married  with  great  state 
and  ancientry;  and  now  there  are  several  Httle  D^Cruzes 
sprawHng  about  the  verandahs  of  the  Central  Telegraph 
Office. 

But,  if  the  whole  revenue  of  the  Department  he  serves 
-/ere  to  be  his  reward,  Michele  could  never,  never  repeat 
,7hat  he  did  at  Tibasu  for  the  sake  of  Miss  Vezzis  the 
imrse-girl. 

Which  proves  that  when  a  man  does  good  work  out  of 
all  proportion  to  his  pay,  in  seven  cases  out  of  nine  there 
is  a  woman  at  the  back  of  the  virtue. 

The  two  exceptions  must  have  suffered  from  sunstroke. 


WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

What  is  in  the  Brahman's  books  that  is  in  the  Brahman's  heart.  Neither 
you  nor  I  knew  there  was  so  much  evil  in  the  world. 

— Hindu  Proverb. 

This  began  in  a  practical  joke;  but  it  has  gone  far  enough 
now,  and  is  getting  serious. 

Platte,  the  Subaltern,  being  poor,  had  a  Waterbury 
watch  and  a  plain  leather  guard. 

The  Colonel  had  a  Waterbury  watch  also,  and,  for 
guard,  the  lip-strap  of  a  curb-chain.  Lip-straps  make  the 
best  watch  guards.  They  are  strong  and  short.  Between 
a  lip-strap  and  an  ordinary  leather-guard  there  is  no  great 
difference;  between  one  Waterbury  watch  and  another 
none  at  all.  Every  one  in  the  Station  knew  the  Colonel's 
lip-strap.  He  was  not  a  horsey  man,  but  he  liked  people 
to  beheve  he  had  been  one  once;  and  he  wove  fantastic 
stories  of  the  hunting-bridle  to  which  this  particular  lip- 
T^trap  had  belonged.   Otherwise  he  was  painfully  rehgious. 

Platte  and  the  Colonel  were  dressing  at  the  Club — both 
late  for  their  engagements,  and  both  in  a  hurry.  That 
was  Kismet,  The  two  watches  were  on  a  sheK  below  the 
looking-glass — guards  hanging  down.  That  was  careless- 
ness. Platte  changed  first,  snatched  a  watch,  looked  in 
the  glass,  settled  his  tie,  and  ran.  Forty  seconds  later,  the 
Colonel  did  exactly  the  same  thing;  each  man  taking  the 
pther's  watch. 

86 


WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT  87 

You  may  have  noticed  that  many  religious  people  are 
deeply  suspicious.  They  seem — for  purely  religious 
purposes,  of  course — to  know  more  about  iniquity 
than  the  Unregenerate.  Perhaps  they  were  specially 
bad  before  they  became  converted!  At  any  rate,  in  the 
imputation  of  things  evil,  and  in  putting  the  worst  con- 
struction on  things  innocent,  a  certain  type  of  good  people 
may  be  trusted  to  surpass  all  others.  The  Colonel  and  his 
Wife  were  of  that  type.  But  the  Colonel's  Wife  was  the 
worst.  She  manufactured  the  Station  scandal,  and 
— talked  to  her  ayah.  Nothing  more  need  be  said.  The 
Colonel's  Wife  broke  up  the  Laplaces'  home.  The 
Colonel's  Wife  stopped  the  Ferris-Haughtrey  engage- 
ment. The  Colonel's  Wife  induced  yoimg  Buxton  to 
keep  his  wife  down  in  the  Plains  through  the  first  year 
of  the  marriage.  Wherefore  little  Mrs.  Buxton  died,  and 
the  baby  with  her.  These  things  will  be  remembered 
against  the  Colonel's  Wife  so  long  as  there  is  a  regiment  in 
the  country. 

But  to  come  back  to  the  Colonel  and  Platte.  They  went 
their  several  ways  from  the  dressing-room.  The  Colonel 
dined  with  two  Chaplains,  while  Platte  went  to  a  bachelor- 
party,  and  whist  to  follow. 

Mark  how  things  happen!  If  Platte's  groom  had 
put  the  new  saddle-pad  on  the  mare,  the  butts  of  the 
territs  would  not  have  worked  through  the  worn  leather 
and  the  old  pad  into  the  mare's  withers,  when  she  was 
coming  home  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She 
would  not  have  reared,  bolted,  fallen  into  a  ditch,  upset 
the  cart,  and  set  Platte  flying  over  an  aloe-hedge  on 
to  Mrs.  Larkyn's  well-kept  lawn;  and  this  tale  would 
never  have  been  written.    But  the  mare  did  all  these 


88  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

things,  and  while  Platte  was  rolling  over  and  over  on 
the  turf,  like  a  shot  rabbit,  the  watch  and  guard  flew 
from  his  waistcoat — as  an  Infantry  Major's  sword  hops 
out  of  the  scabbard  when  they  are  firing  a  feu-de-joie 
— and  rolled  and  rolled  in  the  moonhght,  till  it  stopped 
under  a  window. 

Platte  stuffed  his  handkerchief  under  the  pad,  put 
the  cart  straight,  and  went  home. 

Mark  again  how  Kismet  works!  This  would  not 
arrive  once  in  a  hundred  years.  Towards  the  end  of 
his  diimer  with  the  two  Chaplains,  the  Colonel  let  out 
his  waistcoat  and  leaned  over  the  table  to  look  at  some 
Mission  Reports.  The  bar  of  the  watch-guard  worked 
through  the  buttonhole,  and  the  watch — Platte's  watch 
— slid  quietly  on  to  the  carpet.  Where  the  bearer 
found  it  next  morning,  and  kept  it. 

Then  the  Colonel  went  home  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom; 
but  the  driver  of  the  carriage  was  drunk  and  lost  his 
way.  So  the  Colonel  returned  at  an  imseemly  hour, 
and  his  excuses  were  not  accepted.  If  the  Colonel's 
Wife  had  been  an  ordinary  vessel  of  wrath  appointed  for 
destruction,  she  would  have  known  that  when  a  man 
stays  away  on  purpose,  his  excuse  is  always  sound  and 
original.  The  very  baldness  of  the  Colonel's  explanation 
proved  its  truth. 

See  once  more  the  workings  of  Kismet.  The  Colonel's 
watch,  which  came  with  Platte  hurriedly  on  to  Mrs. 
Larkyn's  lawn,  chose  to  stop  just  under  Mrs.  Lark>Ti's 
window,  where  she  saw  it  early  in  the  morning,  recognised 
it,  and  picked  it  up.  She  had  heard  the  crash  of  Platte's 
cart  at  two  o'clock  that  morning,  and  his  voice  calling 
the  mare  names.    She  knew  Platte  and  liked  him.    That 


WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT  89 

day  she  showed  him  the  watch  and  heard  his  story. 
He  put  his  head  on  one  side,  winked  and  said,  'How 
disgusting !  Shocking  old  man !  With  his  religious  train- 
ing, too !  I  should  send  the  watch  to  the  Colonel's  Wife 
and  ask  for  explanations.' 

Mrs.  Lark>Ti  thought  for  a  minute  of  the  Laplaces 
— whom  she  had  known  when  Laplace  and  his  wife 
believed  in  each  other — and  answered,  *I  will  send  it. 
I  think  it  will  do  her  good.  But,  remember,  we  must 
never  tell  her  the  truth.' 

Platte  guessed  that  his  own  watch  was  in  the  ColoneFs 
possession,  and  thought  that  the  return  of  the  lip-strapped 
Waterbury  with  a  soothing  note  from  Mrs.  Larkyn  would 
merely  create  a  small  trouble  for  a  few  minutes.  Mrs. 
Larkyn  knew  better.  She  knew  that  any  poison  dropped 
would  find  good  holding-ground  in  the  heart  of  the  Col- 
onel's Wife. 

The  packet,  and  a  note  containing  a  few  remarks 
on  the  Colonel's  calling-hours,  were  sent  over  to  the 
Colonel's  Wife,  who  wept  in  her  own  room  and  took 
counsel  with  herself. 

If  there  was  one  woman  under  Heaven  whom  the 
Colonel's  Wife  hated  with  holy  fervour,  it  was  Mrs. 
Larkyn.  Mrs.  Larkyn  was  a  frivolous  lady,  and  called 
the  Colonel's  Wife  'old  cat.'  The  Colonel's  Wife  said 
that  somebody  in  Revelation  was  remarkably  like 
Mrs.  Larkyn.  She  mentioned  other  Scripture  people 
as  well.  From  the  Old  Testament.  But  the  Colonel's 
Wife  was  the  only  person  who  cared  or  dared  to  say 
anything  against  Mrs.  Larkyn.  Every  one  else  ac- 
cepted her  as  an  amusing,  honest  little  body.  Where- 
fore, to  believe  that  her  husband  had  been  shedding 


Qo  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

watches  under  that  'Thing's^  window  at  ungodly  hours, 
coupled  with  the  fact  of  his  late  arrival  on  the  previous 
night,  was     .     .     . 

At  this  point  she  rose  up  and  sought  her  husband. 
He  denied  everything  except  the  ownership  of  the 
watch.  She  besought  him,  for  his  Soul's  sake,  to  speak 
the  truth.  He  denied  afresh,  with  two  bad  words. 
Then  a  stony  silence  held  the  Colonel's  Wife,  while  a 
man  could  draw  his  breath  five  times. 

The  speech  that  followed  is  no  affair  of  mine  or  yours. 
It  was  made  up  of  wifely  and  womanly  jealousy;  knowl- 
edge of  old  age  and  sunk  cheeks;  deep  mistrust  born  of 
the  text  that  says  even  little  babies'  hearts  are  as  bad  as 
they  make  them;  rancorous  hatred  of  Mrs.  Larkyn,  and 
the  tenets  of  the  creed  of  the  Colonel's  Wife's  upbringing. 

Over  and  above  all,  was  the  damning  Kp-strapped 
Waterbury,  ticking  away  in  the  palm  of  her  shaking, 
withered  hand.  At  that  hour,  I  think,  the  Colonel's 
Wife  reahsed  a  little  of  the  restless  suspicion  she  had 
injected  into  old  Laplace's  mind,  a  little  of  poor  Miss 
Haughtrey's  misery,  and  some  of  the  canker  that  ate 
into  Buxton's  heart  as  he  watched  his  wife  dying  before 
his  eyes.  The  Colonel  stammered  and  tried  to  explain. 
Then  he  remembered  that  his  watch  had  disappeared; 
and  the  mystery  grew  greater.  The  Colonel's  Wife 
talked  and  prayed  by  turns  till  she  was  tired,  and  went 
away  to  devise  means  for  chastening  the  stubborn  heart 
of  her  husband.  Which,  translated,  means,  in  our 
slang,  Hail- twisting.' 

Being  deeply  impressed  with  the  doctrine  of  Original 
Sin,  she  could  not  believe  in  the  face  of  appearances.  She 
knew  too  much,  and  jumped  to  the  wildest  conclusions. 


WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT  91 

But  it  was  good  for  her.  It  spoilt  her  life,  as  she 
had  spoilt  the  life  of  the  Laplaces.  She  had  lost  her 
faith  in  the  Colonel,  and— here  the  creed-suspicion 
came  in— he  might,  she  argued,  have  erred  many  times, 
before  a  merciful  Providence,  at  the  hands  of  so  un- 
worthy an  instrument  as  Mrs.  Larkyn,  had  established 
his  guilt.  He  was  a  bad,  wicked,  gray-haired  profligate. 
This  may  sound  too  sudden  a  revulsion  for  a  long- 
wedded  wife;  but  it  is  a  venerable  fact  that,  if  a  man 
or  woman  makes  a  practice  of,  and  takes  a  delight  in, 
believmg  and  spreading  evil  of  people  indifferent  to 
him  or  her,  he  or  she  will  end  in  beheving  evil  of  folk 
very  near  and  dear.  You  may  think,  also,  that  the 
mere  incident  of  the  watch  was  too  small  and  trivial 
to  raise  this  misunderstanding.  It  is  another  aged 
fact  that,  in  life  as  well  as  racing,  all  the  worst  accidents 
happen  at  little  ditches  and  cut-down  fences.  In  the 
same  way,  you  sometimes  see  a  woman  who  would 
have  made  a  Joan  of  Arc  in  another  century  and  climate, 
threshing  herself  to  pieces  over  all  the  mean  worry  of 
housekeeping.     But  that  is  another  story. 

Her  belief  only  made  the  Colonel's  Wife  more  wretched, 
because  it  insisted  so  strongly  on  the  villainy  of  men. 
Remembering  what  she  had  done,  it  was  pleasant  to 
watch  her  unhappiness,  and  the  penny-farthing  attempts 
she  made  to  hide  it  from  the  Station.  But  the  Station 
knew  and  laughed  heartlessly;  for  they  had  heard  the 
story  of  the  watch,  with  much  dramatic  gesture,  from 
Mrs.  Larkyn' s  lips. 

Once  or  twice  Platte  said  to  Mrs.  Larkyn,  seeing 
that  the  Colonel  had  not  cleared  himself,  'This  thing 
has  gone  far  enough.     I  move  we  tell  the  Colonel's 


93  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Wife  how  it  happened.'  Mrs.  Larkyn  shut  her  lips 
and  shook  her  head,  and  vowed  that  the  Colonel's  Wife 
must  bear  her  punishment  as  best  she  could.  Now 
Mrs.  Larkyn  was  a  frivolous  woman,  in  whom  none 
would  have  suspected  deep  hate.  So  Platte  took  no 
action,  and  came  to  believe  gradually,  from  the  Colonel's 
silence,  that  the  Colonel  must  have  run  off  the  line  some- 
where that  night,  and,  therefore,  preferred  to  stand 
sentence  on  the  lesser  count  of  rambling  into  other 
people's  compounds  out  of  calling-hours.  Platte  for- 
got about  the  watch  business  after  a  while,  and  moved 
down-country  with  his  regiment.  Mrs.  Larkyn  went 
home  when  her  husband's  tour  of  Indian  service  expired. 
She  never  forgot. 

But  Platte  was  quite  right  when  he  said  that  the 
joke  had  gone  too  far.  The  mistrust  and  the  tragedy 
of  it — ^which  we  outsiders  cannot  see  and  do  not  believe 
in — are  killing  the  Colonel's  Wife,  and  are  making  the 
Colonel  wretched.  If  either  of  them  read  this  story, 
they  can  depend  upon  its  being  a  fairly  true  account  of 
the  case,  and  can  kiss  and  make  friends. 

Shakespeare  alludes  to  the  pleasure  of  watching  an 
Engineer  being  shelled  by  his  own  Battery.  Now  this 
shows  that  poets  should  not  write  about  what  they  do 
not  understand.  Any  one  could  have  told  him  that 
Sappers  and  Gunners  are  perfectly  different  branches 
of  the  Service.  But,  if  you  correct  the  sentence,  and 
substitute  Gunner  for  Sapper,  the  moral  comes  just  the 
same. 


THE  OTHER  MAN 

When  the  Earth  was  sick  and  the  Skies  were  gray 

And  the  woods  were  rotted  with  rain, 

The  Dead  Man  rode  through  the  autumn  day 

To  visit  his  love  again. 

—Old  Ballad. 

Far  back  in  the  ^seventies,'  before  they  had  built  any 
PubHc-Offices  at  Simla,  and  the  broad  road  round  Jakkc 
lived  in  a  pigeon-hole  in  the  P.  W.  D.  hovels,  her  parents 
made  Miss  Gaurey  marry  Colonel  Schreiderling.  He 
could  not  have  been  much  more  than  thirty-five  years 
her  senior;  and,  as  he  lived  on  two  hundred  rupees  a 
month  and  had  money  of  his  own,  he  was  well  off.  He 
belonged  to  good  people,  and  suffered  in  the  cold  weather 
from  lung-complaints.  In  the  hot  weather  he  dangled  on 
the  brink  of  heat-apoplexy;  but  it  never  quite  killed  him. 
Understand,  I  do  not  blame  Schreiderling.  He  was 
a  good  husband  according  to  his  Hghts,  and  his  temper 
only  failed  him  when  he  was  being  nursed.  Which 
was  some  seventeen  days  in  each  month.  He  was 
almost  generous  to  his  wife  about  money-matters,  and 
that,  for  him,  was  a  concession.  Still  Mrs.  Schreiderhng 
was  not  happy.  They  married  her  when  she  was  this 
side  of  twenty  and  had  given  all  her  poor  Httle  heart 
to  another  man.  I  have  forgotten  his  name,  but  we 
will  call  him  the  Other  Man.    He  had  no  money  and 

93 


94  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

no  prospects.  He  was  not  even  good-looking;  and  I 
think  he  was  in  the  Commissariat  or  Transport.  But, 
in  spite  of  all  these  things,  she  loved  him  very  badly; 
and  there  was  some  sort  of  an  engagement  between  the 
two  when  SchreiderHng  appeared  and  told  Mrs.  Gaurey 
that  he  wished  to  marry  her  daughter.  Then  the  other 
engagement  was  broken  off — washed  away  by  Mrs. 
Gaurey's  tears,  for  that  lady  governed  her  house  by 
weeping  over  disobedience  to  her  authority  and  the 
lack  of  reverence  she  received  in  her  old  age.  The 
daughter  did  not  take  after  her  mother.  She  never  cried. 
Not  even  at  the  wedding. 

The  Other  Man  bore  his  loss  quietly,  and  was  trans- 
ferred to  as  bad  a  station  as  he  could  find.  Perhaps 
the  climate  consoled  him.  He  suffered  from  inter- 
mittent fever,  and  that  may  have  distracted  him  from 
his  other  trouble.  He  was  weak  about  the  heart  also. 
Both  ways.  One  of  the  valves  was  affected,  and  the 
fever  made  it  worse.     This  showed  itself  later  on. 

Then  many  months  passed,  and  Mrs.  SchreiderHng 
took  to  being  ill.  She  did  not  pine  away  like  people 
in  story-books,  but  she  seemed  to  pick  up  every  form 
of  illness  that  went  about  a  Station,  from  simple  fever 
upwards.  She  was  never  more  than  ordinarily  pretty 
at  the  best  of  times;  and  the  illnesses  made  her  ugly. 
SchreiderHng  said  so.  He  prided  himself  on  speaking 
his  mind. 

When  she  ceased  being  pretty,  he  left  her  to  her  own 
devices,  and  went  back  to  the  lairs  of  his  bachelordom. 
She  used  to  trot  up  and  down  Simla  Mall  in  a  forlorn 
sort  of  way,  with  a  gray  Terai  hat  well  on  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  a  shocking  bad  saddle  under  her.    Schrei- 


THE  OTHER  MAN  95 

Herling's  generosity  stopped  at  the  horse.  He  said  that 
any  saddle  would  do  for  a  woman  as  nervous  as  Mrs. 
Schreiderling.  She  never  was  asked  to  dance,  because 
she  did  not  dance  well;  and  she  was  so  dull  and  uninter- 
esting that  her  box  very  seldom  had  any  cards  in  it. 
Schreiderling  said  that  if  he  had  known  she  was  going 
to  be  such  a  scarecrow  after  her  marriage,  he  would  never 
have  married  her.  He  always  prided  himself  on  speaking 
his  mind,  did  Schreiderling. 

He  left  her  at  Simla  one  August,  and  went  down  to  his 
regiment.  Then  she  revived  a  httle,  but  she  never  re- 
covered her  looks.  I  found  out  at  the  Club  that  the 
Other  Man  was  coming  up  sick— very  sick — on  an  off 
chance  of  recovery.  The  fever  and  the  heart-valves 
had  nearly  killed  him.  She  knew  that  too,  and  she 
knew— what  I  had  no  interest  in  knowing— when  he  was 
coming  up.  I  suppose  he  wrote  to  tell  her.  They  had 
not  seen  each  other  since  a  month  before  the  wedding. 
And  here  comes  the  unpleasant  part  of  the  story. 

A  late  call  kept  me  down  at  the  Dovedell  Hotel  till  dusk 
one  evening.  Mrs.  Schreiderling  had  been  flitting  up  and 
down  the  Mall  all  the  afternoon  in  the  rain.  Coming  up 
along  the  Cart-road,  a  tonga  passed  me,  and  my  pony, 
tired  with  standing  so  long,  set  off  at  a  canter.  Just  by 
the  road  down  to  the  Tonga  Office  Mrs.  Schreiderling, 
dripping  from  head  to  foot,  was  waiting  for  the  tonga.^  I 
turned  uphill  as  the  tonga  was  no  affair  of  mine;  and  just 
then  she  began  to  shriek.  I  went  back  at  once  and  saw, 
under  the  Tonga  Office  lamps,  Mrs.  Schreiderling  kneel- 
ing in  the  wet  road  by  the  back  seat  of  the  newly  arrived 
tonga,  screaming  hideously.  Then  she  fell  face  down  in 
the  dirt  as  I  came  up. 


r/j  I>LA1N  TALES  fROM  THE  HILLS 

Sitting  in  the  back  seat,  very  square  and  firm,  with  one 
hand  on  the  awning-stanchion  and  the  wet  pouring  off  his 
hat  and  moustache,  was  the  Other  Man — dead.  The 
sixty-mile  uphill  jolt  had  been  too  much  for  his  valve,  I 
suppose.  The  tonga-driver  said,  'This  Sahib  died  two 
stages  out  of  Solon.  Therefore,  I  tied  him  with  a  rope, 
lest  he  should  fall  out  by  the  way,  and  so  came  to  Simla. 
Will  the  Sahib  give  me  hukshish?  It'  pointing  to  the 
Other  Man, '  should  have  given  one  rupee.' 

The  Other  Man  sat  with  a  grin  on  his  face,  as  if  he 
enjoyed  the  joke  of  his  arrival;  and  Mrs.  Schreiderling,  in 
the  mud,  began  to  groan.  There  was  no  one  except  us 
four  in  the  office  and  it  was  raining  heavily.  The  first 
thing  was  to  take  Mrs.  Schreiderling  home,  ^and  the 
second  was  to  prevent  her  name  from  being  mixed  up  with 
the  affair.  The  tonga-driver  received  five  rupees  to  find  a 
bazar  'rickshaw  for  Mrs.  Schreiderling.  He  was  to  tell  the 
Tonga  Babu  afterwards  of  the  Other  Man,  and  the  Babu 
was  to  make  such  arrangements  as  seemed  best. 

Mrs.  Schreiderhng  was  carried  to  the  shed  out  of  the 
rain,  and  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  we  two  waited  for 
the  'rickshaw.  The  Other  Man  was  left  exactly  as  he  had 
arrived.  Mrs.  Schreiderling  would  do  everything  but  cry, 
which  might  have  helped  her.  She  tried  to  scream  as  soon 
as  her  senses  came  back,  and  then  she  began  praying  for 
the  Other  Man's  soul.  Had  she  not  been  as  honest  as  the 
day  she  would  have  prayed  for  her  own  soul  too.  I 
waited  to  hear  her  do  this,  but  she  did  not.  Then  I  tried 
to  get  some  of  the  mud  off  her  habit.  Lastly,  the  'rick- 
shaw came,  and  I  got  her  away — partly  by  force.  It  was 
a  terrible  business  from  beginning  to  end;  but  most  of  all 
when  the  'rickshaw  had  to  squeeze  between  the  wall  and 


THE  OTHER  MAN  97 

the  tonga,  and  she  saw  by  the  lamplight  that  thin,  yellow 
hand  grasping  the  awning-stanchion. 

She  was  taken  home  just  as  every  one  was  going  to  a 
dance  at  Viceregal  Lodge — ^  Peterhoff '  it  was  then — and 
the  doctor  found  out  that  she  had  fallen  from  her  horse, 
that  I  had  picked  her  up  at  the  back  of  Jakko,  and  really 
deserved  great  credit  for  the  prompt  manner  in  which  I 
had  secured  medical  aid.  She  did  not  die — men  of 
Schreiderling's  stamp  marry  women  who  don't  die  easily. 
They  live  and  grow  ugly. 

She  never  told  of  her  one  meeting,  since  her  marriage^ 
with  the  Other  Man;  and,  when  the  chill  and  cough  follow- 
ing  the  exposure  of  that  evening  allowed  her  abroad,  she 
never  by  word  or  sign  alluded  to  having  met  me  by  the 
Tonga  Office.   Perhaps  she  never  knew. 

She  used  to  trot  up  and  down  the  Mall,  on  that  shock- 
ing bad  saddle,  looking  as  if  she  expected  to  meet  some 
one  round  the  corner  every  minute.  Two  years  after- 
wards she  went  Home,  and  died — at  Bournemouth,  I 
think. 

Schreiderling,  when  he  grew  maudlin  at  mess,  used  to 
talk  about  'my  poor  dear  wife.'  He  always  set  great 
store  on  speaking  his  mind,  did  Schreiderling. 


CONSEQUENCES 

Rosicrucian  subtleties 

In  the  Orient  had  rise; 

Ye  may  find  their  teachers  still 

Under  Jactala's  Hill. 

Seek  ye  Bombast  Paracelsus, 

Read  what  Flood  the  Seeker  tells  us 

Of  the  Dominant  that  runs 

Through  the  Cycles  of  the  Suns — 

Read  my  story  last,  and  see 

Luna  at  her  apogee. 

There  are  yearly  appointments,  and  two-yearly  appoint- 
ments, and  five-yearly  appointments  at  Simla,  and  there 
are,  or  used  to  be,  permanent  appointments,  whereon  you 
stayed  up  for  the  term  of  your  natural  life  and  secured  red 
cheeks  and  a  nice  income.  Of  course,  you  could  descend 
in  the  cold  weather;  for  Simla  is  rather  dull  then. 

Tarrion  came  from  goodness  knows  where — all  away 
and  away  in  some  forsaken  part  of  Central  India,  where 
they  call  Pachmari  a  Sanitarium,  and  drive  behind  trot- 
ting-bullocks,  I  believe.  He  belonged  to  a  regiment;  but 
what  he  really  wanted  to  do  was  to  escape  from  his  regi- 
ment and  live  in  Simla  for  ever  and  ever.  He  had  no 
preference  for  anything  in  particular,  beyond  a  good 
horse  and  a  nice  partner.  He  thought  he  could  do  every- 
thing well;  which  is  a  beautiful  belief  when  you  hold  it 
with  all  your  heart.     He  was  clever  in  many  ways,  and 

98 


CONSEQUENCES  99 

good  to  look  at,  and  always  made  people  round  him  com- 
fortable— even  in  Central  India. 

So  he  went  up  to  Simla,  and,  because  he  was  clever  and 
amusing,  he  gravitated  naturally  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  who 
could  forgive  everything  but  stupidity.  Once  he  did  her  a 
great  service  by  changing  the  date  on  an  invitation-card 
for  a  big  dance  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee  wished  to  attend, 
but  couldn't  because  she  had  quarrelled  with  the  A.-D.- 
C,  who  took  care,  being  a  mean  man,  to  invite  her  to  a 
small  dance  on  the  6th  instead  of  the  big  Ball  of  the  26th. 
It  was  a  very  clever  piece  of  forgery;  and  when  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  showed  the  A.-D.-C.  her  invitation-card,  and 
chaffed  him  mildly  for  not  better  managing  his  vendettas, 
he  really  thought  that  he  had  made  a  mistake;  and — 
which  was  wise — reahsed  that  it  was  no  use  to  fight  with 
Mrs.  Hauksbee.  She  was  grateful  to  Tarrion  and  asked 
what  she  could  do  for  him.  He  said  simply,  *  I'm  a  Free- 
lance up  here  on  leave,  on  the  lookout  for  what  I  can  loot. 
I  haven't  a  square  inch  of  interest  in  all  Simla.  My  name 
isn't  known  to  any  man  with  an  appointment  in  his  gift, 
and  I  want  an  appointment — a  good,  sound  one.  I  be- 
lieve you  can  do  anything  you  turn  yourself  to.  Will  you 
help  me?'  Mrs.  Hauksbee  thought  for  a  minute,  and 
passed  the  lash  of  her  riding-whip  through  her  lips,  as  was 
her  custom  when  thinking.  Then  her  eyes  sparkled  and 
she  said,  'I  will';  and  she  shook  hands  on  it.  Tarrion, 
having  perfect  confidence  in  this  great  woman,  took  no 
further  thought  of  the  business  at  all.  Except  to  wonder 
what  sort  of  an  appointment  he  would  win. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  began  calculating  the  prices  of  all  the 
Heads  of  Departments  and  Members  of  Council  she  knew, 
and  the  more  she  thought  the  more  she  laughed,  because 


joo  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

her  heart  was  in  the  game  and  it  amused  her.  Then  she 
took  a  Civil  List  and  ran  over  a  few  of  the  appointments. 
There  are  some  beautiful  appointments  in  the  Civil  List. 
Eventually,  she  decided  that,  though  Tarrion  was  too 
good  for  the  PoKtical  Department,  she  had  better  begin 
by  trying  to  place  him  there.  Her  own  plans  to  this  end 
do  not  matter  in  the  least,  for  Luck  or  Fate  played  into 
her  hands,  and  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  the 
course  of  events  and  take  the  credit  of  them. 

All  Viceroys,  when  they  first  come  out,  pass  through 
the  Diplomatic  Secrecy  craze.  It  wears  off  in  time;  but 
they  all  catch  it  in  the  beginning,  because  they  are  new  to 
the  country.  The  particular  Viceroy  who  was  suffering 
from  the  complaint  just  then — this  was  a  long  time  ago, 
before  Lord  Dufferin  ever  came  from  Canada,  or  Lord 
Ripon  from  the  bosom  of  the  EngHsh  Church — had  it 
very  badly;  and  the  result  was  that  men  who  were  new  to 
keeping  official  secrets  went  about  looking  unhappy;  and 
the  Viceroy  plmned  himself  on  the  way  in  which  he  had 
instilled  notions  of  reticence  into  his  Staff. 

Now,  the  Supreme  Government  have  a  careless  custom 
of  committing  what  they  do  to  printed  papers.  These 
papers  deal  with  all  sorts  of  things — from  the  payment  of 
Rs.  200  to  a  'secret  service'  native,  up  to  rebukes  ad- 
ministered to  Vakils  and  Motamids  of  Native  States,  and 
rather  brusque  letters  to  Native  Princes,  telling  them  to 
put  their  houses  in  order,  to  refrain  from  kidnappng 
women,  or  filling  offenders  with  pounded  red  pepper,  and 
eccentricities  of  that  kind.  Of  course,  these  things  could 
never  be  made  pubHc,  because  Native  Princes  never  err 
officially,  and  their  States  are  officially  as  well  admin- 
istered as  Our  territories.     Also,  the  private  allowances 


CONSEQC'ENCES  loi 

to  various  queer  people  are  not  exactly  matters  to  put 
into  newspapers,  though  they  give  quaint  reading  some- 
times. When  the  Supreme  Government  is  at  Simla,  these 
papers  are  prepared  there,  and  go  round  to  the  people 
who  ought  to  see  them  in  office-boxes  or  by  post.  The 
principle  of  secrecy  was  to  that  Viceroy  quite  as  impor- 
tant as  the  practice,  and  he  held  that  a  benevolent 
despotism  like  Ours  should  never  allow  even  little  things, 
such  as  appointments  of  subordinate  clerks,  to  leak  out 
till  the  proper  time.  He  was  always  remarkable  for  his 
principles. 

There  was  a  very  important  batch  of  papers  in  prep- 
aration at  that  time.  It  had  to  travel  from  one  end  of 
Simla  to  the  other  by  hand.  It  was  not  put  into  an  official 
envelope,  but  a  large,  square,  pale  pink  one;  the  matter 
being  in  MS.  on  soft  crinkly  paper.  It  was  addressed  to 
'The  Head  Clerk,  etc.  etc'  Now,  between  'The  Head 
Clerk,  etc.  etc'  and  'Mrs.  Hauksbee'  and  a  flourish,  is  no 
very  great  difference,  if  the  address  be  written  in  a  very 
bad  hand,  as  this  was.  The  orderly  who  took  the  envelope 
was  not  more  of  an  idiot  than  most  orderlies.  He  merely 
forgotwhere  this  most  unofficial  coverwas  to  be  delivered, 
and  so  asked  the  first  Englishman  he  met,  who  happened 
to  be  a  man  riding  down  to  Annandale  in  a  great  hurry. 
The  Englishman  hardly  looked  at  it,  said,  'Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee,' and  went  on.  So  did  the  orderly,  because  that  letter 
was  the  last  in  stock  and  he  wanted  to  get  his  work  over. 
There  was  no  book  to  sign;  he  thrust  the  letter  into  Mrs. 
Hauksbee's  bearer's  hands  and  went  off  to  smoke  with  a 
friend.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  expecting  some  cut-out 
pattern  things  in  flimsy  paper  from  a  friend.  As  soon  as 
she  got  the  big  square  packet,  therefore,  she  said,  'Oh,  the 


102  PLAIN  TM.ES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

»lear  creature!'  and  tore  it  open  with  a  paper-knife,  and 
?J1  the  MS.  enclosures  tumbled  out  on  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  began  reading.  I  have  said  the  batch 
was  rather  important.  That  is  quite  enough  for  you  to 
know.  It  referred  to  some  correspondence,  two  measures, 
a  peremptory  order  to  a  native  chief,  and  two  dozen  other 
things.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  gasped  as  she  read,  for  the  first 
gHmpse  of  the  naked  machinery  of  the  Great  Indian 
Government,  stripped  of  its  casings,  and  lacquer,  and 
paint,  and  guard-rails,  impresses  even  the  most  stupid 
man.  And  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  a  clever  woman.  She  was 
a  httle  afraid  at  first,  and  felt  as  if  she  had  taken  hold  of  a 
lightning-flash  by  the  tail,  and  did  not  quite  know  what 
to  do  with  it.  There  were  remarks  and  initials  at  the  side 
of  the  papers;  and  some  of  the  remarks  were  rather  more 
severe  than  the  papers.  The  initials  belonged  to  men  who 
are  all  dead  or  gone  now;  but  they  were  great  in  their  day. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  read  on  and  thought  calmly  as  she  read. 
Then  the  value  of  her  trove  struck  her,  and  she  cast  about 
for  the  best  method  of  using  it.  Then  Tarrion  dropped  in, 
and  they  read  through  all  the  papers  together,  and  Tar- 
rion, not  knowing  how  she  had  come  by  them,  vowed  that 
Mrs.  Hftuksbee  was  the  greatest  woman  on  earth.  Which 
I  believe  was  true,  or  nearly  so. 

'The  honest  course  is  always  the  best,'  said  Tarrion, 
after  an  hour  and  a  half  of  study  and  conversation. 
*A11  things  considered,  the  Intelligence  Branch  is  about 
my  form.  Either  that  or  the  Foreign  Office.  I  go  to 
lay  siege  to  the  High  Gods  in  their  Temples.' 

He  did  not  seek  a  Httle  man,  or  a  little  big  man,  or  a 
weak  Head  of  a  strong  Department,  but  he  called  on 
the  biggest  and  strongest  man  that  the  Government 


CONSEQUENCES  103 

owned,  and  explained  that  he  wanted  an  appointment 
at  Simla  on  a  good  salary.  The  compound  insolence  of 
this  amused  the  Strong  Man,  and,  as  he  had  nothing  to 
do  for  the  moment,  he  listened  to  the  proposals  of  the 
audacious  Tarrion.  'You  have,  I  presume,  some  special 
qualifications,  besides  the  gift  of  self-assertion,  for  the 
claims  you  put  forward?'  said  the  Strong  Man.  'That, 
Sir,'  said  Tarrion,  'is  for  you  to  judge.'  Then  he  began, 
for  he  had  a  good  memory,  quoting  a  few  of  the  more 
important  notes  in  the  papers — slowly  and  one  by  one  as 
a  man  drops  chlorodyne  into  a  glass.  When  he  had 
reached  the  peremptory  order — and  it  was  a  very  per- 
emptory order — the  Strong  Man  was  troubled.  Tar- 
rion wound  up — 'And  I  fancy  that  special  knowledge  of 
this  kind  is  at  least  as  valuable  for,  let  us  say,  a  berth  in 
the  Foreign  Office,  as  the  fact  of  being  the  nephew  of  a 
distinguished  officer's  wife.'  That  hit  the  Strong  Man 
hard,  for  the  last  appointment  to  the  Foreign  Office  had 
been  by  black  favour,  and  he  knew  it. 

'I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,'  said  the  Strong  Man. 

'Many  thanks,'  said  Tarrion.  Then  he  left,  and 
the  Strong  Man  departed  to  see  how  the  appointment 
was  to  be  blocked. 


Followed  a  pause  of  eleven  days;  with  thunders 
and  lightnings  and  much  telegraphing.  The  appoint- 
ment was  not  a  very  important  one,  carrying  only 
between  Rs.500  and  Rs.700  a  month;  but,  as  the  Vice- 
roy said,  it  was  the  principle  of  diplomatic  secrecy  that 
had  to  be  maintained,  and  it  was  more  than  likely  that  a 
boy  so  well  supplied  with  special  information  would  be 


104  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS  j 

worth  translating.  So  they  translated  Tarrion.  They 
must  have  suspected  him,  though  he  protested  that  his 
information  was  due  to  singular  talents  of  his  own.  Now, 
much  of  this  story,  including  the  after-history  of  the 
missing  envelope,  you  must  fill  in  for  yourself,  because 
there  are  reasons  why  it  cannot  be  written.  If  you  do 
not  know  about  things  Up  Above,  you  won't  understand 
how  to  fill  in,  and  you  will  say  it  is  impossible. 

What  the  Viceroy  said  when  Tarrion  was  intro- 
duced to  him  was — 'This  is  the  boy  who  *' rushed"  the 
Government  of  India,  is  it?  Recollect,  Sir,  that  is  not 
done  twice.'     So  he  must  have  known  something. 

What  Tarrion  said  when  he  saw  his  appointment 
gazetted  was — *If  Mrs.  Hauksbee  were  twenty  years 
younger,  and  I  her  husband,  I  should  be  Viceroy  of 
India  in  fifteen  years.' 

What  Mrs.  Hauksbee  said,  when  Tarrion  thanked 
her,  almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  was  first — *I  told 
you  so!'  and  next,  to  herseK — 'What  fools  men  areT 


I 


THE  CONVERSION  OF  AURELIAN  McGOGGIN 

Ride  with  an  idle  whip,  ride  with  an  unused  heel, 
But,  once  in  a  way,  there  will  come  a  day 
When  the  colt  must  be  taught  to  feel 
The  lash  that  falls,  and  the  curb  that  galls,  and  the  sting  of  the  rowelled 
steel. 

— Life's  Handicap. 

This  is  not  a  tale  exactly.     It  is  a  Tract;  and  I  am  im- 
mensely proud  of  it.     Making  a  Tract  is  a  Feat. 

Every  man  is  entitled  to  his  own  religious  opinions; 
but  no  man — least  of  all  a  junior — has  a  right  to  thrust 
these  down  other  men's  throats.  The  Government 
sends  out  weird  Civilians  now  and  again;  but  McGoggin 
was  the  queerest  exported  for  a  long  time.  He  was 
clever — brilliantly  clever — but  his  cleverness  worked  the 
wrong  way.  Instead  of  keeping  to  the  study  of  the 
vernaculars,  he  had  read  some  books  written  by  a  man 
called  Comte,  I  think,  and  a  man  called  Spencer.  [You 
will  find  these  books  in  the  Library.]  They  deal  with 
people's  insides  from  the  point  of  view  of  men  who  have 
no  stomachs.  There  was  no  order  against  his  reading 
them;  but  his  Mamma  should  have  smacked  him.  They 
fermented  in  his  head,  and  he  came  out  to  India  with  a 
rarefied  religion  over  and  above  his  work.  It  was  not 
much  of  a  creed.  It  only  proved  that  men  had  no  souls, 
and  there  was  no  God  and  no  hereafter,  and  that  you 
must  worry  along  somehow  for  the  good  of  Humanity. 

los 


io5  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

One  of  its  minor  tenets  seemed  to  be  that  the  one 
thing  more  sinful  than  giving  an  order  was  obeying  it. 
At  least,  that  was  what  McGoggin  said;  but  I  suspect 
he  had  misread  his  primers. 

I  do  not  say  a  word  against  this  creed.  It  was  made 
up  in  Town  where  there  is  nothing  but  machinery  and 
asphalte  and  building — all  shut  in  by  the  fog.  Natu- 
rally, a  man  grows  to  think  that  there  is  no  one  higher 
than  himself,  and  that  the  Metropolitan  Board  of  Works 
made  everything.  But  in  India,  where  you  really  see 
humanity — raw,  brown,  naked  hmnanity — with  nothing 
between  it  and  the  blazing  sky,  and  only  the  used-up, 
over-handled  earth  underfoot,  the  notion  somehow  dies 
away,  and  most  folk  come  back  to  simpler  theories. 
Life,  in  India,  is  not  long  enough  to  waste  in  proving  that 
there  is  no  one  in  particular  at  the  head  of  affairs.  For 
this  reason.  The  Deputy  is  above  the  Assistant,  the 
Commissioner  above  the  Deputy,  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor  above  the  Commissioner,  and  the  Viceroy 
above  all  four,  under  the  orders  of  the  Secretary  of  State 
who  is  responsible  to  the  Empress.  If  the  Empress  be 
not  responsible  to  her  Maker — if  there  is  no  Maker  for 
her  to  be  responsible  to — the  entire  system  of  Our  ad' 
ministration  must  be  wrong.  Which  is  manifestly  im- 
possible. At  Home  men  are  to  be  excused.  They  are 
stalled  up  a  good  deal  and  grow  intellectually  'beany.' 
When  you  take  a  gross,  *  beany'  horse  to  exercise,  he 
slavers  and  slobbers  over  the  bit  till  you  can't  see  the 
horns.  But  the  bit  is  there  just  the  same.  Men  do  not 
get  'beany'  in  India.  The  climate  and  the  work  are 
against  playing  bricks  with  words. 

If  McGoggin  had  kept  his  creed,  with  the  capital 


THE  CONVERSION  OF  AURELIAN  McGOGGIN        107 

letters  and  the  endings  in  'isms/  to  himself,  no  one 
would  have  cared;  but  his  grandfathers  on  both  sides 
had  been  Wesleyan  preachers,  and  the  preaching  strain 
came  out  in  his  mind.  He  wanted  every  one  at  the 
Club  to  see  that  they  had  no  souls  too,  and  to  help  him 
to  eliminate  his  Creator.  As  a  good  many  men  told 
him,  he  undoubtedly  had  no  soul,  because  he  was  sci 
young,  but  it  did  not  follow  that  his  seniors  were  equally 
undeveloped;  and,  whether  there  was  another  world  or 
not,  a  man  still  wanted  to  read  his  papers  in  this.  *  But 
that  is  not  the  point — that  is  not  the  point!'  AureHan 
used  to  say.  Then  men  threw  sofa-cushions  at  him  and 
told  him  to  go  to  any  particular  place  he  might  believe 
in.  They  christened  him  the  *  Blastoderm,' — he  said  he 
came  from  a  family  of  that  name  somewhere,  in  the  pre- 
historic ages, — and,  by  insult  and  laughter  strove  to 
choke  him  dumb,  for  he  was  an  unmitigated  nuisance 
at  the  Club;  besides  being  an  offence  to  the  older  men. 
His  Deputy  Commissioner,  who  was  working  on  the 
Frontier  when  AureHan  was  rolling  on  a  bed-quilt,  told 
him  that,  for  a  clever  boy,  Aurelian  was  a  very  big  idiot. 
And,  if  he  had  gone  on  with  his  work,  he  would  have  been 
caught  up  to  the  Secretariat  in  a  few  years.  He  was 
of  the  type  that  goes  there — all  head,  no  physique  and 
a  hundred  theories.  Not  a  soul  was  interested  in  McGog- 
gin's  soul.  He  might  have  had  two,  or  none,  or  some- 
body else's.  His  business  was  to  obey  orders  and  keep 
abreast  of  his  files,  instead  of  devastating  the  Club  with 
^isms.' 

He  worked  brilliantly;  but  he  could  not  accept  any 
order  without  trying  to  better  it.  That  was  the  fault 
of  his  creed.    It  made  men  too  responsible  and  left  too 


io8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

much  to  their  honour.  You  can  sometimes  ride  an  old 
horse  in  a  halter;  but  never  a  colt.  McGoggin  took 
more  trouble  over  his  cases  than  any  of  the  men  of  his 
year.  He  may  have  fancied  that  thirty-page  judgments 
on  fifty-rupee  cases — both  sides  perjured  to  the  gullet 
— advanced  the  cause  of  Humanity.  At  any  rate,  he 
worked  too  much,  and  worried  and  fretted  over  the  re- 
bukes he  received,  and  lectured  away  on  his  ridiculous 
creed  out  of  office,  till  the  Doctor  had  to  warn  him  that 
he  was  overdoing  it.  No  man  can  toil  eighteen  annas 
in  the  rupee  in  June  without  suffering.  But  McGoggin 
was  still  intellectually  'beany*  and  proud  of  himself  and 
his  powers,  and  he  would  take  no  hint.  He  worked  nine 
hours  a  day  steadily. 

^Very  well,'  said  the  Doctor,  'you'll  break  down,  be- 
cause you  are  over-engined  for  your  beam.'  McGoggin 
was  a  Httle  man. 

One  day,  the  collapse  came — as  dramatically  as  if 
it  had  been  meant  to  embellish  a  Tract. 

It  was  just  before  the  Rains.  We  were  sitting  in 
the  verandah  in  the  dead,  hot,  close  air,  gasping  and 
praying  that  the  black-blue  clouds  would  let  down  and 
bring  the  cool.  Very,  very  far  away,  there  was  a  faint 
whisper,  which  was  the  roar  of  the  Rains  breaking 
over  the  river.  One  of  the  men  heard  it,  got  out  of 
his  chair,  listened  and  said,  naturally  enough,  'Thank 
God!' 

Then  the  Blastoderm  turned  in  his  place  and  said, 
*  Why?  I  assure  you  it's  only  the  result  of  perfectly 
natural  causes — atmospheric  phenomena  of  the  simplest 
kind.  Why  you  should,  therefore,  return  thanks  to  a 
Being  who  never  did  exist — who  is  only  a  figment ' 


THE  CONVERSION  OF  AURELIAN  McGOGGIN         109 

'Blastoderm/  grunted  the  man  in  the  next  chah*, 
*dry  up,  and  throw  me  over  the  Pioneer,  We  know  all 
about  your  figments.'  The  Blastoderm  reached  out  to 
the  table,  took  up  one  paper,  and  jumped  as  if  some- 
thing had  stung  him.     Then  he  handed  the  paper. 

^As  I  was  saying,*  he  went  on  slowly  and  with  an 
effort — 'due  to  perfectly  natural  causes — perfectly  nat- 
ural causes.     I  mean ' 

'Hi!  Blastoderm,  you've  given  me  the  Calcutta 
Mercantile  Advertiser.^ 

The  dust  got  up  in  little  whorls,  while  the  tree-tops 
rocked  and  the  kites  whistled.  But  no  one  was  looking 
at  the  coming  of  the  Rains.  We  were  all  staring  at 
the  Blastoderm,  who  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  was 
fighting  with  his  speech.  Then  he  said,  still  more 
slowly — 

'Perfectly  conceivable dictionary red  oak 

amenable cause retaining shuttle-cock 

alone.' 

'Blastoderm's  drunk,'  said  one  man.  But  the  Blas- 
toderm was  not  drunk.  He  looked  at  us  in  a  dazed 
sort  of  way,  and  began  motioning  with  his  hands  in  the 
half  Hght  as  the  clouds  closed  overhead.  Then — with 
a  scream — 

'What  is  it? Can't reserve attainable 

market obscure ' 

But  his  speech  seemed  to  freeze  in  him,  and — just  as 
the  Hghtning  shot  two  tongues  that  cut  the  whole  sky 
into  three  pieces  and  the  rain  fell  in  quivering  sheets^ 
the  Blastoderm  was  struck  dumb.  He  stood  pawing 
and  champing  like  a  hard-held  horse,  and  his  eyes  were 
full  of  terror. 


no  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

The  Doctor  came  over  in  three  minutes,  and  heard 
the  story.  'It's  aphasia,^  he  said.  'Take  him  to  his 
room.  I  knew  the  smash  would  come.'  We  carried 
the  Blastoderm  across  in  the  pouring  rain  to  his  quar- 
ters, and  the  Doctor  gave  him  bromide  of  potassium  to 
make  him  sleep. 

Then  the  Doctor  came  back  to  us  and  told  us  that 
aphasia  was  like  all  the  arrears  of  'Punjab  Head'  falling 
in  a  lump;  and  that  only  once  before — in  the  case  of  a 
sepoy — had  he  met  with  so  complete  a  case.  I  have 
seen  mild  aphasia  in  an  overworked  man,  but  this  suddeii 
dumbness  was  uncanny — though,  as  the  Blastoderm  him- 
self might  have  said,  due  to  'perfectly  natural  causes.' 

'He'll  have  to  take  leave  after  this,'  said  the  Doctor. 
*He  won't  be  fit  for  work  for  another  three  months.  No; 
it  isn't  insanity,  or  anything  like  it.  It's  only  complete 
loss  of  control  over  the  speech  and  memory-  I  fancy  vt 
will  keep  the  Blastoderm  quiet,  though.' 

Two  days  later,  the  Blastoderm  found  his  tongue  again. 
The  first  question  he  asked  was — '  What  was  it? '  The 
Doctor  enUghtened  him.  'But  I  can't  understand  it!' 
said  the  Blastoderm.  '  I'm  quite  sane;  but  I  can't  be  sure 
of  my  mind,  it  seems — my  own  memory — can  I  ? ' 

'  Go  up  into  the  Hills  for  three  months,  and  don't  think 
about  it,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'But  I  can't  understand  it,'  repeated  the  Blastoderm. 
^It  was  my  own  mind  and  memory.' 

'I  can't  help  it,'  said  the  Doctor;  'there  are  a  good 
many  things  you  can't  understand;  and,  by  the  time  you 
have  put  in  my  length  of  service,  you'll  know  exactly  how 
much  a  man  dare  call  his  own  in  this  world.' 

The  stroke  cowed  the  Blastoderm.       He  could  not 


THE  CONVERSION  OF  AURELIAN  McGOGGIN         iii 

understand  it.  He  went  into  the  Hills  in  fear  and  trem- 
biing,  wondering  whether  he  would  be  permitted  to  reach 
the  end  of  any  sentence  he  began. 

This  gave  him  a  wholesome  feeling  of  mistrust.  The 
legitimate  explanation,  that  he  had  been  overworking 
himself,  failed  to  satisfy  him.  Something  had  wiped  his 
lips  of  speech,  as  a  mother  wipes  the  milky  lips  of  her 
child,  and  he  was  afraid — horribly  afraid. 

So  the  Club  had  rest  when  he  returned;  and  if  ever  you 
come  across  AureHan  McGoggin  laying  down  the  law  on 
things  Human — he  doesn't  seem  to  know  as  much  as  he 
used  to  about  things  Divine — put  your  forefinger  to  your 
lip  for  a  moment,  and  see  what  happens. 

"Oon't  blame  me  if  he  throws  a  glass  at  your  head. 


I 


THE  TAKING  OF  LUNGTUNGPEI^ 

So  we  loosed  a  bloomin'  volley, 
An'  we  made  the  beggars  cut. 
An'  when  our  pouch  was  emptied  out, 
We  used  the  bloomin'  butt, 
Ho!  My! 

Don't  yer  come  anigh, 
When  Tommy  is  a  playin'  with  the  baynit  an'  the  butt. 

— Barrack  Room  Ballad. 

My  friend  Private  Mulvaney  told  me  this,  sitting  on  the 
parapet  of  the  road  to  Dagshai,  when  we  were  hunting 
butterflies  together.  He  had  theories  about  the  Army, 
and  coloured  clay  pipes  perfectly.  He  said  that  the  young 
soldier  is  the  best  to  work  with,  'on  account  av  the  sur- 
passing innocinse  av  the  child.' 

'Now,  listen!'  said  Mulvaney,  throwing  himself  full 
length  on  the  wall  in  the  sun.  '  I'm  a  bom  scutt  av  the 
barrack-room!  The  Army's  mate  an'  dhrink  to  me, 
bekaze  I'm  wan  av  the  few  that  can't  quit  ut.  I've  put  in 
sivinteen  years,  an'  the  pipeclay's  in  the  marrow  av  me. 
Av  I  cud  have  kept  out  av  wan  big  dhrink  a  month,  I  wud 
have  been  a  Hon'ry  Lift'nint  by  this  time — a  nuisance  to 
my  betthers,  a  laughin'-shtock  to  my  equils,  an'  a  curse  to 
meself.  Bein'  fwhat  I  am,  I'm  Privit  Mulvaney,  wid  no 
good-conduc'  pay  an'  a  devourin'  thirst.  Always  barrin' 
me  little  frind  Bobs  Bahadur,  I  know  as  much  about  the 
Army  as  most  men.' 


THE  TAKING  OF  LUNGTUNGPEN  113 

I  said  something  here. 

'  Wolseley  be  shot !  Betune  you  an'  me  an'  that  butter- 
fly net,  he's  a  ramblin',  incoherint  sort  av  a  divil,  wid  wan 
oi  on  the  Quane  an'  the  Coort,  an'  the  other  on  his  blessed 
silf — everlastin'ly  playing  Saysar  an'  Alexandrier  rowled 
into  a  lump.  Now  Bobs  is  a  sinsible^Httle  man.  Wid  Bobs 
an'  a  few  three-year-olds,  I'd  swape  any  army  av  the  earth 
into  a  towel,  an'  throw  it  away  aftherwards.  Faith,  I'm 
not  jokin'!  'Tis  the  bhoys — the  raw  bhoys — that  don't 
know  fwhat  a  bullut  manes,  an'  wudn't  care  av  they  did— 
that  dhu  the  work.  They're  crammed  wid  bull-mate  till 
they  fairly  ramps  wad  good  Hvin' ;  and  thin,  av  they  don't 
fight,  they  blow  each  other's  bids  off.  'Tis  the  trut'  I'm 
telhn'  you.  They  shud  be  kept  on  water  an'  rice  in  the 
hot  weather;  but  there'd  be  a  mut'ny  av  'twas  done. 

'Did  ye  iver  hear  how  Privit  Mulvaney  tuk  the  towa 
av  Lungtungpen?  I  thought  not!  'Twas  the  Lift'nint 
got  the  credit;  but  'tw^as  me  planned  the  schame.  A  Httle 
before  I  was  inviladed  from  Burma,  me  an'  four-an'- 
twenty  yoimg  wans  undher  a  Lift'nint  Brazenose,  was 
ruinin'  our  dijeshins  thryin'  to  catch  dacoits.  An'  such 
double-ended  divils  I  niver  knew  I  'Tis  only  a  dah  an'  a 
Snider  that  makes  a  dacoit.  Widout  thim,  he's  a  paceful 
cultivator,  an'  felony  for  to  shoot.  We  hunted,  an'  we 
hunted,  an'  tuk  fever  an'  elephints  now  an'  again;  but  no 
dacoits.  Evenshually,  we  puckarowed  wan  man.  ''  Trate 
him  tinderly,"  sez  the  Lift'nint.  So  I  tuk  him  away  into 
the  jungle,  wid  the  Burmese  Interprut'r  an'  my  clanin'- 
rod.  Sez  I  to  the  man,  "My  paceful  squireen,"  sez  I, 
"you  shquot  on  your  hunkers  an'  dimonstrate  to  my  frind 
here,  where  your  frinds  are  whin  they're  at  home? '  Wid 
that  I  introjuced  him  to  the  clanin'-rod,  an'  he  comminst 


114  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

to  jabber;  the  Interprut'r  inteprutin'  in  betweens,  an'  me 
helpin'  the  Intilligince  Departmint  wid  my  clanin'-rod 
whin  the  man  misremimbered. 

'Prisintly,  I  learn  that,  acrost  the  river,  about  nine 
miles  away,  was  a  town  just  dhrippin'  wid  dahs,  an' 
bohs  an'  arrows,  an'  dacoits,  an'  elephints,  an'  jingles. 
' '  Good ! "  sez  I ; ' '  this  office  will  now  close ! ' ' 

^That  night,  I  went  to  the  Lift'nint  an'  communicates 
my  information.  I  never  thought  much  of  Lift'nint 
Brazenose  till  that  night.  He  was  shtiff  wid  books  an' 
the-ouries,  an'  all  manner  av  thrimmin's  no  manner  av 
use.  ''Town  did  ye  say?"  sez  he.  ''Accordin'  to  the 
the-ouries  av  War,  we  shud  wait  for  reinforcements."— 
''Faith!"  thinks  I,  "we'd  betther  dig  our  graves  thin"^ 
for  the  nearest  throops  was  up  to  their  shtocks  in  the 
marshes  out  Mimbu  way.  "But,"  says  the  Lift'nint, 
"since  'tis  a  speshil  case,  I'll  make  an  excepshin.  We'll 
visit  this  Lungtungpen  to-night." 

'  The  bhoys  was  fairly  woild  wid  deloight  whin  I  touldf 
'em;  an',  by  this  an'  that,  they  wint  through  the  jungle 
like  buck-rabbits.  About  midnight  we  come  to  the 
sthrame  which  I  had  clane  forgot  to  minshin  to  my  orficer. 
I  was  on  ahead,  wid  four  bhoys,  an'  I  thought  that  the 
Lift'nint  might  want  to  the-ourise.  "  Shtrip  bhoys ! "  sez 
I.  "  Shtrip  to  the  buff  and  shwim  in  where  glory  waits ! " 
— "But  I  can't  shwim!"  sez  two  av  thim.  "To  think  I 
should  live  to  hear  that  from  a  bhoy  wid  a  board-school 
edukashin ! "  sez  I.  "Take  a  lump  av  thimber,  an'  me  an* 
Conolly  here  will  ferry  ye  over,  ye  young  ladies! " 

*  We  got  an  ould  tree- trunk,  an'  pushed  off  wid  the  kits 
an'  the  rifles  on  it.  The  night  was  chokin'  dhark,  an'  just 
as  we  was  fairly  embarked,  I  heard  the  Lift'nint  behind 


THE  TAKING  OF  LUNGTUNGPEN  115 

av  me  callin'  out.  ^'  There^s  a  bit  av  a  nullah  here,  Sorr," 
sez  I,  ^*but  I  can  feel  the  bottom  aheady."  So  I  cud,  for  I 
*/as  not  a  yard  from  the  bank. 

' ''  Bit  av  a  nullah!  Bit  av  an  eshtuary ! "  «ez  the  Lift'- 
nint.  *^Go  on,  ye  mad  Irishman!  Shtrip  bhoysl"  I 
heard  him  laugh;  an'  the  bhoys  begun  shtrippin'  an'  rollin' 
a  log  into  the  wather  to  put  their  kits  on.  So  me  an' 
Conolly  shtruck  out  through  the  warm  wather  wid  our 
log,  an'  the  rest  come  on  behind. 

'  That  shtrame  was  miles  woide !  Orth'ris,  on  the  rear- 
rank  log,  whispers  we  had  got  into  the  Thames  below 
Sheerness  by  mistake.  ^'Kape  on  shwimmin',  ye  Uttle 
blayguard,"  sez  I,  ''an'  don't  go  pokin'  your  dirty  jokes 
at  the  Irriwaddy." — ''Silince,  men!"  sings  out  the  Lift'- 
nint.  So  we  shwum  on  into  the  black  dhark,  wid  our 
chests  on  the  logs,  trustin'  in  the  Saints  an'  the  luck  av  the 
British  Army. 

'  Evenshually,  we  hit  ground — a  bit  av  sand — an'  a 
man.  I  put  my  heel  on  the  back  av  him.  He  skreeched 
an'  ran. 

'''Now  we've  done  it!"  sez  Lift'nint  Brazenose. 
''Where  the  Divil  is  Lungtungpen? "  There  was  about  a 
minute  and  a  half  to  wait.  The  bhoys  laid  a  hould  av 
tl:iclr  rifles  an'  some  thried  to  put  their  belts  on;  we  was 
marchin'  with  fixed  baynits  av  coorse.  Thin  we  knew 
where  Lungtungpen  was;  for  we  had  hit  the  river-wall  av 
it  in  the  dhark,  an'  the  whole  town  blazed  wid  thim 
messin'  jingles  an'  Sniders  like  a  cat's  back  on  a  frosty 
night.  They  was  firin'  all  ways  at  wanst;  but  over  our 
bids  into  the  shtrame. 

'"Have  you  got  your  rifles?"  sez  Brazenose.  "Got 
*em!"  sez  Orth'ris.    "I've  got  that  thief  Mulvaney's  for 


ii6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  .THElHILLS 

all  my  back-pay,  an'  she'll  kick  my  heart  sick  wid  that 
blunderin'  long  shtock  av  hers." — ''Go  on!"  yells  Braze- 
nose,  whippin'  his  sword  out.  "  Go  on  aji'  take  the  town/ 
An'  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  our  sowls! " 

'  Thin  the  bhoys  gave  wan  divastatin'  howl,  an'  pranced 
into  the  dhark,  feelin'  for  the  town,  an'  blindin'  an'  stiffin' 
like  Cavalry  Ridin'  Masters  whin  the  grass  pricked  their 
bare  legs.  I  hammered  wid  the  butt  at  some  bamboo- 
thing  that  felt  wake,  an'  the  rest  come  an'  hammered  con- 
tagious, while  the  jingles  was  jingling,  an'  f  eroshus  yells 
from  inside  was  shplittin'  our  ears.  We  was  too  close 
under  the  wall  for  thim  to  hurt  us. 

'  Evenshually,  the  thing,  whatever  ut  was,  bruk;  an'  the 
six-an'-twinty  av  us  tiunbled,  wan  after  the  other,  naked 
as  we  were  borrun,  into  the  town  of  Lungtungpen.  There 
was  a  melly  av  a  sumpshus  kind  for  a  whoile;  but  whether 
they  tuk  us,  all  white  an'  wet,  for  a  new  breed  av  divil,  or 
a  new  kind  av  dacoit,  I  don't  know.  They  ran  as  though 
we  was  both,  an'  we  wint  into  thim,  baynit  an'  butt, 
shriekin'  wid  laughin'.  There  was  torches  in  the  shtreets, 
an'  I  saw  little  Orth'ris  rubbin'  his  showlther  ivry  time  he 
loosed  my  long-shtock  Martini;  an'  Brazenose  walkin' 
into  the  gang  wid  his  sword,  like  Diarmid  av  the  Gowlden 
Collar — barrin'  he  hadn't  a  stitch  av  clothin'  on  him.  We 
diskivered  elephints  wid  dacoits  under  their  bellies,  an', 
what  wid  wan  thing  an'  another,  we  was  busy  till  momin' 
takin'  possession  av  the  town  of  Lungtungpen. 

'Thhi  we  halted  an'  formed  up,  the  wimmen  howlin'  in 
the  houses  an'  Lift'nint  Brazenose  blushin'  pink  in  the 
Hght  av  the  momin'  sun.  'Twas  the  most  ondasint  p'rade 
I  iver  tuk  a  hand  in.  Foive-an'-twenty  privits  an'  a  orficer 
av  the  Line  in  review  ordher,  an'  not  as  much  as  wud  dust 


THE  TAKING  OF  LUNGTUNGPEN  iiT 

a  fife  betune  'em  all  in  the  way  of  clothinM  Eight  av  us 
had  their  belts  an'  pouches  on;  but  the  rest  had  gone  in 
wid  a  handful  av  cartridges  an'  the  skin  God  gave  thim. 
They  was  as  nakid  as  Vanus. 

'''Number  off  from  the  right!"  sez  the  Lift'nint. 
"Odd  numbers  fall  out  to  dress;  even  numbers  pathrol 
the  town  till  relieved  by  the  dressing  party."  Let  me 
tell  you,  pathrollin'  a  town  wid  nothing  on  is  an  ex- 
payxitncQ.  I  pathroUed  for  tin  minutes,  an'  begad,  be- 
fore 'twas  over,  I  blushed.  The  women  laughed  so. 
I  niver  blushed  before  or  since;  but  I  blushed  all  over 
my  carkiss  thin.  Orth'ris  didn't  pathrol.  He  sed  only, 
'Tortsmith  Barricks  an'  the  'Ard  av  a  Sunday!'  Thin 
he  lay  down  an'  rowled  any  ways  wid  laughin'. 

'Whin  we  was  all  dhressed,  we  counted  the  dead — 
sivinty-foive  dacoits,  besides  woimded.  We  tuk  five 
elephints,  a  hunder'  an'  sivinty  Sniders,  two  hunder' 
dahs,  and  a  lot  av  other  burglarious  thruck.  Not  a 
man  av  us  was  hurt — excep'  maybe  the  Lift'nint,  an'  he 
from  the  shock  to  his  dasincy. 

'The  Headman  av  Lungtungpen,  who  surrinder'd 
himself,  asked  the  Literprut'r— "Av  the  EngUsh  fight 
like  that  wid  their  clo'es  off,  what  in  the  wurruld  do 
they  do  wid  their  clo'es  on?"  Orth'ris  began  rowlin' 
his  eyes  an'  crackin'  his  fingers  an'  dancin'  a  step-dance 
for  to  impress  the  Headman.  He  ran  to  his  house;  an' 
we  spint  the  rest  av  the  day  carryin'  the  Lift'nint  on 
our  showlthers  round  the  town,  an'  playin'  wid  the 
Burmese  babies — fat,  little,  brown  Httle  divils,  as  pretty 
as  picturs. 

'Whin  I  was  inviladed  for  the  dysent'ry  to  India,  I 
sez  to  the  Lift'nint,  "Sorr,"  sez  I,  "you've  the  makin's 


ii8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

in  you  av  a  great  man;  but,  av  you'll  let  an  ould  sodger 
spake,  you're  too  fond  of  the-ourisin'."  He  shuk  hands 
wid  me  and  sez,  ''Hit  high,  hit  low,  there's  no  plasin' 
you,  Mulvaney.  You've  seen  me  waltzin'  through 
Lungtungpen  Uke  a  Red  Injin  widout  the  war-paint,  an' 
you  say  I'm  too  fond  av  the-ourisin'?" — "Sorr,"  sez  I, 
for  I  loved  the  bhoy,  "I  wud  waltz  wid  you  in  that 
condishin  through  Hell,  an'  so  wud  the  rest  av  the  men!" 
Tliin  I  wint  downshtrame  in  the  flat  an'  left  him  my 
blessin'.  May  the  Saints  carry  ut  where  ut  shud  go,  for 
he  was  a  fine  upstandin'  young  orficer. 

'To  reshume.  Fwhat  I've  said  jist  shows  the  use  av 
three-year-olds.  Wud  fifty  seasoned  sodgers  have  taken 
Lungtungpen  in  the  dhark  that  way?  No!  They'd 
know  the  risk  av  fever  and  chill.  Let  alone  the  shoo  tin'. 
Two  hundher'  might  have  done  ut.  But  the  three-year- 
olds  know  Httle  an'  care  less;  an'  where  there's  no  fear, 
there's  no  danger.  Catch  thim  young,  feed  thim  high, 
an'  by  the  honour  av  that  great,  little  man  Bobs,  behind 
a  good  orficer  'tisn't  only  dacoits  they'd  smash  wid  their 
clo'es  off— 'tis  Con-tinental  Ar-r-r-mies!  They  tuk 
Lungtungpen  nakid;  an'  they'd  take  St.  Pethersburg  in 
their  dhrawers!     Begad,  they  would  that! 

'Here's  your  pipe,  Sorr.  Shmoke  her  tinderly  wid 
honey-dew,  afther  letting  the  reek  av  the  Canteen  plug 
die  away.  But  'tis  no  good,  thanks  to  you  all  the  same, 
fillin'  my  pouch  wid  your  chopped  hay.  Canteen 
baccy's  like  the  Army.  It  shpoils  a  man's  taste  for 
moilder  things.' 

So  saying,  Mulvaney  took  up  his  butterfly-net,  and 
returned  to  barracks. 


BITTERS  NEAT 

The  oldest  trouble  in  the  world  comes  from  want  of  un- 
derstanding. And  it  is  entirely  the  fault  of  the  woman. 
Somehow,  she  is  built  incapable  of  speaking  the  truth, 
even  to  herself.  She  only  finds  it  out  about  four  months 
later,  when  the  man  is  dead,  or  has  been  transferred. 
Then  she  says  she  never  was  so  happy  in  her  Hfe,  and 
marries  some  one  else,  who  again  touched  some  woman's 
heart  elsewhere,  and  did  not  know  it,  but  was  mixed  up 
with  another  man's  wiie,  who  only  used  him  to  pique  a 
third  man.     And  so  round  again — all  criss-cross. 

Out  here,  where  life  goes  quicker  than  at  Home, 
things  are  more  obviously  tangled,  and  therefore  more 
pitiful  to  look  at.  Men  speak  the  truth  as  they  under- 
stand it,  and  women  as  they  think  men  would  like  to 
understand  it;  and  then  they  all  act  lies  which  would 
deceive  Solomon,  and  the  result  is  a  heartrending 
muddle  that  half  a  dozen  open  words  would  put 
straight. 

Tliis  particular  muddle  did  not  differ  from  any  other 
muddle  you  may  see,  if  you  are  not  busy  playing  cross- 
purposes  yourself,  going  on  in  a  big  Station  any  cold 
season.  Its  only  merit  was  that  it  did  not  come  all 
right  in  the  end;  as  muddles  are  made  to  do  in  the 
third  volume. 

I've  forgotten  what  the  man  was — he  was  an  ordi- 

IIQ 


120  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

nary  sort  of  man — 'man  you  meet  any  day  at  the  A.- 
D.-C.'s  end  of  the  table,  and  go  away  and  forget  about. 
His  name  was  Surrey;  but  whether  he  was  in  the  Army 
or  the  P.  W.  D.,  on  the  Comissariat,  or  the  Police,  or  a 
factory,  I  don't  remember.  He  wasn't  a  Civilian.  He 
was  just  an  ordinary  man,  of  the  light-coloured  variety, 
with  a  fair  moustache  and  with  the  average  amount  of 
pay  that  comes  between  twenty-seven  and  thirty-two — 
from  six  to  nine  hundred  a  month. 

He  didn't  dance,  and  he  did  what  little  riding  he 
wanted  to  do  by  himself,  and  was  busy  in  office  all  day, 
and  never  bothered  his  head  about  women.  No  man 
ever  dreamed  he  would.  He  was  of  the  type  that  doesn't 
marry,  just  because  it  doesn't  think  about  marriage. 
He  was  one  of  the  plain  cards,  whose  only  use  is  to  make 
up  the  pack,  and  furnish  background  to  put  the  Court 
cards  against. 

Then  there  was  a  girl — ordinary  girl — the  dark- 
coloured  variety — daughter  of  a  man  in  the  Army, 
who  played  a  little,  sang  a  little,  talked  a  little,  and 
furnished  the  background,  exactly  as  Surrey  did.  She 
had  been  sent  out  here  to  get  married  if  she  could,  be- 
cause there  were  many  sisters  at  home,  and  Colonels' 
allowances  aren't  elastic.  She  Hved  with  an  aunt. 
She  was  a  Miss  Tallaght,  and  men  spelt  her  name 
*Tart'  on  the  programmes  when  they  couldn't  catch 
what  the  introducer  said. 

Surrey  and  she  were  thrown  together  in  the  same 
Station  one  cold  weather;  and  the  particular  Devil 
who  looks  after  muddles  prompted  Miss  Tallaght  to 
fall  in  love  with  Surrey.  He  had  spoken  to  her  per- 
haps twenty  times — certainly  not  more — but  she  fell 


BITTERS  NEAT  iit 

as  unreasoiiingly  in  love  with  him  as  if  she  had  been 
Elaine  and  he  Lancelot. 

She,  of  course,  kept  her  own  counsel;  and,  equally 
of  course,  her  manner  to  Surrey,  who  never  noticed 
manner  or  style  or  dress  any  more  than  he  noticed  a 
sunset,  was  icy,  not  to  say  repellent.  The  deadly  dull- 
ness of  Surrey  struck  her  as  a  reserve  of  force,  and  she 
grew  to  belive  he  was  wonderfully  clever  in  some  secret 
and  mysterious  sort  of  line.  She  did  not  know  what 
line;  but  she  believed,  and  that  was  enough.  No  one 
suspected  anything  of  any  kind,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  no  one  took  any  deep  interest  in  Miss  Tallaght  ex- 
cept her  Aunt;  who  wanted  to  get  the  girl  off  her  hands. 

This  went  on  for  some  months,  till  a  man  suddenly 
woke  up  to  the  fact  that  Miss  Tallaght  was  the  one 
woman  in  the  world  for  him,  and  told  her  so.  She 
jawabed  him — without  rhyme  or  reason;  and  that  night 
there  followed  one  of  those  awful  bedroom  conferences 
that  men  know  nothing  about.  Miss  Tallaght's  Aunt, 
querulous,  indignant,  and  merciless,  with  her  mouth 
full  of  hair-pins,  and  her  hands  full  of  false  hair-plaits, 
set  herself  to  find  out  by  cross-examination  what  in  the 
name  of  everything  wise,  prudent,  religious,  and  duti- 
ful, Miss  Tallaght  meant  by  jawahing  her  suitor.  The 
conference  lasted  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  with  question 
on  question,  insult  and  reminders  of  poverty — appeals 
to  Providence,  then  a  fresh  mouthful  of  hair-pins — then 
all  the   questions   over  again,   beginning  with: — 'But 

what  do  you  see  to  dislike  in  Mr. ?'  then,  a  vicious 

tug  at  what  was  left  of  the  mane;  then  impressive  warn- 
ings and  more  appeals  to  Heaven;  and  then  the  collapse 
of  poor  Miss  Tallaght,  a  rumpled,  crumpled,  tear-stained 


122  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

arrangement  in  white  on  the  couch  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and,  between  sobs  and  gasps,  the  whole  absurd  little 
story  of  her  love  for  Surrey. 

Now,  in  all  the  forty-iive  years'  experience  of  Mis3 
Tallaght's  Aunt,  she  had  never  heard  of  a  girl  throwing 
over  a  real  genuine  lover  with  an  appointment,  for  a 
problematical,  hypothetical  lover  to  whom  she  had 
spoken  merely  in  the  course  of  the  ordinary  social 
visiting  rounds.  So  Miss  Tallaght's  Aunt  was  struck 
dumb,  and,  merely  praying  that  Heaven  might  direct 
Miss  Tallaght  into  a  better  frame  of  mind,  dismissed 
the  ayah,  and  went  to  bed;  leaving  Miss  Tallaght  to  sob 
and  moan  herself  to  sleep. 

Understand  clearly,  I  don't  for  a  moment  defend 
Miss  Tallaght.  She  was  wrong — absurdly  wrong- 
but  attachments  Hke  hers  must  sprout  by  the  law  of 
averages,  just  to  remind  people  that  Love  is  as  nakedly 
unreasoning  as  when  Venus  first  gave  him  his  kit  and 
told  him  to  run  away  and  play. 

Surrey  must  be  held  innocent — innocent  as  his  own 
pony.  Could  he  guess  that,  when  Miss  Tallaght  was 
as  curt  and  as  unpleasing  as  she  knew  how,  she  would 
have  risen  up  and  followed  him  from  Colombo  to  Dadar 
at  a  word?  He  didn't  know  anything,  or  care  any- 
thing about  Miss  Tallaght.     He  had  his  work  to  do. 

Miss  Tallaght's  Aunt  might  have  respected  her 
niece's  secret.  But  she  didn't.  What  we  call  'talk- 
ing rank  scandal,'  she  called  'seeking  advice';  and 
she  sought  advice,  on  the  case  of  Miss  Tallaght,  from 
the  Judge's  wife  4n  strict  confidence,  my  dear,'  who 
told  the  Commissioner's  wife,  'of  course  you  won't 
repeat  it,  my  dear,'  who  told  the  Deputy  Commis- 


BITTERS  NEAT  123 

sioner's  wife,  *you  understand  it  is  to  go  no  further, 
my  dear,'  who  told  the  newest  bride,  who  was  so  de- 
lighted at  being  in  possession  of  a  secret  concerning 
real  grown-up  men  and  women,  that  she  told  any  one 
and  every  one  who  called  on  her.  So  the  tale  went  all 
over  the  Station,  and  from  being  no  one  in  particular. 
Miss  Tallaght  came  to  take  precedence  of  the  last  in- 
teresting squabble  between  the  Judge's  wife  and  the 
Civil  Engineer's  wife.  Then  began  a  really  interest- 
ing system  of  persecution  worked  by  women — soft 
and  sympathetic  and  intangible,  but  calculated  to  drive 
a  girl  off  her  head.  They  were  all  so  sorry  for  Miss 
Tallaght,  and  they  cooed  together  and  were  exagger- 
atedly kind  and  sweet  in  their  manner  to  her,  as  those 
who  said: — ^You  may  confide  in  us,  my  stricken  deer!' 

Miss  Tallaght  was  a  woman,  and  sensitive.  It  took 
her  less  than  one  evening  at  the  Band  Stand  to  find 
that  her  poor  little,  precious  little  secret,  that  had  been 
wrenched  from  her  on  the  rack,  was  known  as  widely 
as  if  it  had  been  written  on  her  hat.  I  don't  know 
what  she  went  through.  Women  don't  speak  of  these 
things,  and  men  ought  not  to  guess;  but  it  must  have 
been  some  specially  refined  torture,  for  she  told  her 
Aimt  she  would  go  Home  and  die  as  a  Governess  sooner 
than  stay  in  this  hateful — hateful — ^place.  Her  Aunt 
said  she  was  a  rebellious  girl,  and  sent  her  Home  to  her 
people  after  a  couple  of  months;  and  said  no  one  knew 
what  the  pains  of  a  chaperone^s  Hfe  were. 

Poor  Miss  Tallaght  had  one  pleasure  just  at  the  last. 
Halfway  down  the  line,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Sur- 
rey, who  had  gone  down  on  duty,  and  was  then  in  the 
up-train.    And  he  took  off  his  hat  to  her.    She  went 


124  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Home,  and  if  she  is  not  dead  by  this  time  must  be  liv- 
ing still. 


Months  afterwards,  there  was  a  lively  dinner  at  the 
Club  for  the  Races.  Surrey  was  mooning  about  as 
usual,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  idle  talk  flying 
every  way.  Finally,  one  man,  who  had  taken  more 
than  was  good  for  him,  said,  apropos  of  something 
about  Surrey's  reserved  ways, — 'Ah,  you  old  fraud. 
It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  pretend.  I  know  a  girl 
who  was  awf'ly  mashed  on  you — once.  Dead  nuts 
she  was  on  old  Surrey.  What  had  you  been  doing, 
eh?' 

Surrey  expected  some  sort  of  sell,  and  said  with  ?. 
laugh: — 

'Who  was  she?' 

Before  any  one  could  kick  the  man,  he  plumped  out 
with  the  name;  and  the  Honorary  Secretary  tactfully 
upset  the  half  of  a  big  brew  of  shandy-gaff  all  over  the 
table.  After  the  mopping  up,  the  men  went  out  to 
the  Lotteries. 

But  Surrey  sat  on,  and,  after  ten  minutes,  said  very 
humbly  to  the  only  other  man  in  the  deserted  dining- 
room: — 'On  your  honour,  was  there  a  word  of  truth  in 
what  the  drunken  fool  said? ' 

Then  the  man  who  is  writing  this  story,  who  had  known 
of  the  thing  from  the  beginning,  and  now  felt  all  the  hope- 
lessness and  tangle  of  it, — the  waste  and  the  muddle, — 
said,  a  good  deal  more  energetically  than  he  meant: — 

'  Truth !    0  man,  man,  couldn't  you  see  it? ' 

Surrey  said  nothing,  but  sat  still,  smoking  and  smoking 


BITTERS  NEAT  125 

and  thinking,  while  the  Lottery  tent  babbled  outside,  and 
the  khitmutgars  turned  down  the  lamps. 

To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief  that  was  the 
first  thing  Surrey  ever  knew  about  love.  But  his  awaken- 
ing did  not  seem  to  delight  him.  It  must  have  been  rather 
unpleasant,  to  judge  by  the  look  on  his  face.  He  looked 
like  a  man  who  had  missed  a  train  and  had  been  half 
stunned  at  the  same  time. 

When  the  men  came  in  from  the  Lotteries,  Surrey  went 
out.  He  wasn't  in  the  mood  for  bones  and  'horse'  talk. 
He  went  to  his  tent,  and  the  last  thing  he  said,  quite  aloud 
to  himself,  was:— 'I  didn't  see.  I  didn't  see.  lilhs^di  only 
known!' 

Even  if  he  had  known  I  don't  believe    .     .     . 

But  these  things  are  kismet,  and  we  only  find  out  aD 
about  them  just  when  any  knowledge  is  too  late. 


A  GERM-DESTROYER 

Pleasant  it  is  for  the  Little  Tin  Gods 

When  great  Jove  nods; 
But  Little  Tin  Gods  make  their  little  mistakes 
In  missing  the  hour  when  great  Jove  wakes. 

As  a  general  rule,  it  is  inexpedient  to  meddle  with 
questions  of  State  in  a  land  where  men  are  highly  paid  to 
work  them  out  for  you.  This  tale  is  a  justifiable  excep- 
tion. 

Once  in  every  five  years,  as  you  know,  we  indent  for  a 
new  Viceroy;  and  each  Viceroy  imports,  with  the  rest  of 
his  baggage,  a  Private  Secretary,  who  may  or  may  not  be 
the  real  Viceroy,  just  as  Fate  ordains.  Fate  looks  after 
the  Indian  Empire  because  it  is  so  big  and  so  helpless. 

There  was  a  Viceroy  once,  who  brought  out  with  him  a 
turbulent  Private  Secretary — a  hard  man  with  a  soft 
manner  and  a  morbid  passion  for  work.  This  Secretary 
was  called  Wonder — John  Fennil  Wonder.  The  Viceroy 
possessed  no  name — nothing  but  a  string  of  counties  and 
two-thirds  of  the  alphabet  after  them.  He  said,  in  confi- 
dence, that  he  was  the  electro-plated  figure-head  of  a 
golden  administration,  and  he  watched  in  a  dreamy, 
amused  way  Wonder's  attempts  to  draw  matters  which 
were  entirely  outside  his  province  into  his  own  hands. 
*  When  we  are  all  cherubims  together,'  said  His  Excellency 
once,  ^my  dear,  good  friend  Wonder  will  head  the  con- 

126 


A  GERM-DESTROYER  127 

spiracy  for  plucking  out  Gabriel's  tail-feathers  or  stealing 
Peter's  keys.    Then  I  shall  report  him.' 

But,  though  the  Viceroy  did  nothing  to  check  Wonder's 
officiousness,  other  people  said  unpleasant  things.  Maybe 
the  Members  of  Council  began  it;  but,  finally,  all  Simla 
agreed  that  there  was  '  too  much  Wonder,  and  too  little 
Viceroy'  in  that  rule.  Wonder  was  always  quoting  'His 
Excellency.'  It  was  '  His  Excellency  this,' '  His  Excellency 
that,'  'In  the  opinion  of  His  Excellency,'  and  so  on.  The 
Viceroy  smiled;  but  he  did  not  heed.  He  said  that,  so 
long  as  his  old  men  squabbled  with  his  'dear,  good  Won- 
der,' they  might  be  induced  to  leave  the  Immemorial  East 
in  peace. 

'No  wise  man  has  a  Policy,'  said  the  Viceroy.  'A 
Policy  is  the  blackmail  levied  on  the  Fool  by  the  Unfore- 
seen. I  am  not  the  former,  and  I  do  not  believe  in  the 
latter.' 

I  do  not  quite  see  what  this  means,  unless  it  refers  to  an 
Insurance  Policy.  Perhaps  it  was  the  Viceroy's  way  of 
saying,  'Lie  low.' 

That  season,  came  up  to  Simla  one  of  these  crazy 
people  with  only  a  single  idea.  These  are  the  men  who 
make  things  move;  but  they  are  not  nice  to  talk  to.  This 
man's  name  was  Mellish,  and  he  had  lived  for  fifteen 
years  on  land  of  his  own,  in  Lower  Bengal,  studying 
cholera.  He  held  that  cholera  was  a  germ  that  propagated 
itself  as  it  flew  through  a  muggy  atmosphere;  and  stuck 
in  the  branches  of  trees  like  a  wool-flake.  The  germ 
could  be  rendered  sterile,  he  said,  by  'Mellish's  Own  In- 
vincible P'umigatory' — a  heavy  violent-black  powder — • 
'the  result  of  fifteen  years'  scientific  investigation,  Sir!' 

Inventors  seem  very  much  alike  as  a  caste.    They  talk 


128  PLAIN^TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

loudly,  especially  about  'conspiracies  of  monopolists'; 
they  beat  upon  the  table  with  their  fists;  and  they  secrete 
fragments  of  their  inventions  about  their  persons. 

Mellish  said  that  there  was  a  Medical  'Ring'  at  Simla, 
headed  by  the  Surgeon- General,  who  was  in  league,  ap- 
parently, with  all  the  Hospital  Assistants  in  the  Empire. 
I  forget  exactly  how  he  proved  it,  but  it  had  something  to 
to  with  'skulking  up  to  the  Hills';  and  what  Mellish 
wanted  was  the  independent  evidence  of  the  Viceroy — 
'Steward  of  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  Sir.'  So  Mellish 
went  up  to  Simla,  with  eighty-four  pounds  of  Fumigatory 
in  his  trunk,  to  speak  to  the  Viceroy  and  to  show  him  the 
merits  of  the  invention. 

But  it  is  easier  to  see  a  Viceroy  than  to  talk  to  him, 
unless  you  chance  to  be  as  important  as  Mellishe  of 
Madras.  He  was  a  six-thousand-rupee  man,  so  great  that 
his  daughters  never  'married.'  They  *  contracted 
alliances.'  He  himself  was  not  paid.  He  'received 
emoluments,'  and  his  journeys  about  the  country  were 
'  tours  of  observation.'  His  business  was  to  stir  up  the 
people  in  Madras  with  a  long  pole — as  you  stir  up  tench 
in  a  pond — and  the  people  had  to  come  up  out  of  their 
comfortable  old  ways  and  gasp — 'This  is  Enhghtenment 
and  Progress.  Isn't  it  fine!'  Then  they  gave  MeUishe 
statues  and  jasmine  garlands,  in  the  hope  of  getting  rid  of 
him. 

Mellishe  came  up  to  Simla  'to  confer  with  the  Viceroy.' 
That  was  one  of  his  perquisites.  The  Viceroy  knew 
nothing  of  Mellishe  except  that  he  was  'one  of  those 
middle-class  deities  who  seem  necessary  to  the  spiritual 
comfort  of  this  Paradise  of  the  Middle-classes,'  and  that, 
in  all  probability,  he  had  'suggested,  designed,  founded. 


A  GERM-DESTROYER  129 

and  endowed  all  the  public  institutions  in  Madras.' 
Which  proves  that  His  Excellency,  though  dreamy,  had 
experience  of  the  ways  of  six- thousand-rupee  men. 

Mellishe's  name  was  E.  Mellishe,  and  Mellish's  was  E. 
S.  Mellish,  and  they  were  both  staying  at  the  same  hotel, 
and  the  Fate  that  looks  after  the  Indian  Empire  ordained 
that  Wonder  should  blunder  and  drop  the  final '  e ';  that 
the  Chaprassi  should  help  him,  and  that  the  note  which 
ran: — 

Dear  Mr.  Mellish, —  Can  you  set  aside  your  other  engagements, 
and  lunch  with  us  at  two  to-morrow?  His  Excellency  has  an  hour  at 
at  your  disposal  then, 

should  be  given  to  Mellish  with  the  Fumigatory.  He 
nearly  wept  with  pride  and  delight,  and  at  the  appointed 
hour  cantered  to  Peterhoff ,  a  big  paper-bag  full  of  the 
Fumigatory  in  his  coat-tail  pockets.  He  had  his  chance, 
and  he  meant  to  make  the  most  of  it.  Mellishe  of  Madras 
had  been  so  portentously  solemn  about  his  '  conference,* 
that  Wonder  had  arranged  for  a  private  tiffin, — no  A.-D.- 
C.'s,  no  Wonder,  no  one  but  the  Viceroy,  who  said 
plaintively  that  he  feared  being  left  alone  with  unmuzzled 
autocrats  like  the  great  Mellishe  of  Madras. 

But  his  guest  did  not  bore  the  Viceroy.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  amused  him.  Mellish  was  nervously  anxious  to 
go  straight  to  his  Fumigatory,  and  talked  at  random 
until  tiffin  was  over  and  His  Excellency  asked  him  to 
smoke.  The  Viceroy  was  pleased  with  Mellish  because  he 
did  not  talk  'shop.' 

As  soon  as  the  cheroots  were  lit,  Mellish  spoke  like  u 
man;  beginning  with  his  cholera- theory,  reviewing  hi* 


J30  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

fifteen  years'  ^scientific  labours,'  the  machinations  of  the 
'Simla  Ring/  and  the  excellence  of  his  Fumigatory, 
while  the  Viceroy  watched  him  between  half-shut  eyes 
and  thought — 'Evidently  this  is  the  wrong  tiger;  but  it  is 
an  original  animal.'  MeUish's  hair  was  standing  on  end 
with  excitement,  and  he  stammered.  He  began  groping 
in  his  coat-tails  and,  before  the  Viceroy  knew  what  was 
about  to  happen,  he  had  tipped  a  bagful  of  his  powder 
into  the  big  silver  ash-tray. 

'J-j-judge  for  yourself,  Sir,'  said  MelHsh.  'Y'  Ex- 
cellency shall  judge  for  yourself !  Absolutely  infallible,  on 
my  honour.' 

He  plunged  the  Hghted  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  powder, 
which  began  to  smoke  like  a  volcano,  and  send  up  fat, 
greasy  wreaths  of  copper-coloured  smoke.  In  five  seconds 
the  room  was  filled  with  a  most  pungent  and  sickening 
stench — a  reek  that  took  fierce  hold  of  the  trap  of  your 
windpipe  and  shut  it.  The  powder  hissed  and  fizzed,  and 
sent  out  blue  and  green  sparks,  and  the  smoke  rose  till  you 
could  neither  see,  nor  breathe,  nor  gasp.  Mellish,  how- 
ever, was  used  to  it. 

'Nitrate  of  strontia,'  he  shouted;  'baryta,  bone-meal. 
Thousand  cubic  feet  smoke  per  cubic  inch.  Not  a  germ 
could  live — not  a  germ,  Y'  Excellency!' 

But  His  Excellency  had  fled,  and  was  coughing  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  while  all  Peterhoff  hummed  Hke  a  hive. 
Red  Lancers  came  in,  and  the  head  Chaprassi  who  speaks 
EngUsh,  came  in,  and  mace-bearers  came  in  and  ladies  ran 
downstairs  screaming  'Fire';  for  the  smoke  was  drifting 
through  the  house  and  oozing  out  of  the  windows,  and 
bellying  along  the  verandahs,  and  wreathing  and  writhing 
across  the  gardens.    No  one  could  enter  the  room  where 


A  GERM-DESTROYER  131 

MelHsh  was  lecturing  on  his  Fumigatory,  till  that  un- 
«^peakable  powder  had  burnt  itself  out. 

Then  an  Aide-de-Camp,  who  desired  the  V.  C,  rushed 
chrough  the  rolling  clouds  and  hauled  Mellish  into  the 
hall.  The  Viceroy  was  prostrate  with  laughter,  and  could 
only  waggle  his  hands  feebly  at  MelHsh,  who  was  shaking 
a  fresh  bagful  of  powder  at  him. 

'  Glorious !  Glorious !'  sobbed  His  Excellency.  *  Not  a 
germ,  as  you  justly  observe,  could  exist!  I  can  swear  it. 
A  magnificent  success ! ' 

Then  he  laughed  till  the  tears  came,  and  Wonder,  who 
had  caught  the  real  Mellishe  snorting  on  the  Mall,  entered 
and  was  deeply  shocked  at  the  scene.  But  the  Viceroy 
was  delighted,  because  he  saw  that  Wonder  would 
presently  depart.  Mellish  with  the  Fumigatory  was  also 
pleased,  for  he  felt  that  he  had  smashed  the  Simla  Medi- 
cal'Ring.' 


Few  men  could  tell  a  story  like  His  Excellency  when  he 
took  the  trouble,  and  his  account  of  'my  dear,  good 
Wonder's  friend  with  the  powder'  went  the  round  of 
Simla,  and  flippant  folk  made  Wonder  unhappy  by  their 
.emarks. 

But  His  Excellency  told  the  tale  once  too  often — 
for  Wonder.  As  he  meant  to  do.  It  was  at  a  Seepee 
Picnic.     Wonder  was  sitting  just  behind  the  Viceroy. 

'And  I  really  thought  for  a  moment,'  wound  up 
His  Excellency,  '  that  my  dear,  good  Wonder  had  hired 
an  assassin  to  clear  his  way  to  the  throne ! ' 

Every  one  laughed;  but  there  was  a  delicate  sub- 
tinkle  in  the  Viceroy's  tone  which  Wonder  understood. 


^3  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

He  found  that  his  health  was  giving  way;  and  tho 
Viceroy  allowed  him  to  go,  and  presented  him  with  a 
flaming  *  character'  for  use  at  Home  among  big  people. 
^My  fault  entirely/  said  His  Excellency,  in  after 
seasons,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  ^My  inconsistency 
must  always  have  been  distasteful  to  such  a  masterly 
man.' 


KIDNAPPED 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  any  way  you  please,  is  bad, 

And  strands  them  in  forsaken  guts  and  creeks 

No  decent  soul  would  think  of  visiting. 

You  cannot  stop  the  tide;  but,  now  and  then, 

You  may  arrest  some  rash  adventurer 

Who — ^h'm — will  hardly  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

— Vibart's  Moralities, 

We  are  a  high-caste  and  enlightened  race,  and  infant- 
marriage  is  very  shocking  and  the  consequences  are 
sometimes  pecuKar;  but,  nevertheless,  the  Hindu  notion 
— which  is  the  Continental  notion,  which  is  the  ab- 
original notion — of  arranging  marriages  irrespective  of 
the  personal  incKnations  of  the  married,  is  sound.  Think 
for  a  minute,  and  you  will  see  that  it  must  be  so;  unless, 
of  course,  you  beHeve  in  'affinities.'  In  which  case  you 
had  better  not  read  this  tale.  How  can  a  man  who  has 
never  married;  who  cannot  be  trusted  to  pick  up  at  sight 
a  moderately  sound  horse;  whose  head  is  hot  and  upset 
with  visions  of  domestic  felicity,  go  about  the  choosing  of 
a  wife?  He  cannot  see  straight  or  think  straight  if  he 
tries;  and  the  same  disadvantages  exist  in  the  case  of  a 
girl's  fancies.  But  when  mature,  married,  and  discreet 
people  arrange  a  match  between  a  boy  and  a  girl,  they 
do  it  sensibly,  with  a  view  to  the  future,  and  the  young 
couple  live  happily  ever  afterwards.    As  everybody  knows. 

133 


134  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Properly  speaking,  Government  should  establish  a 
Matrimonial  Department,  efficiently  officered,  with  a 
Jury  of  Matrons,  a  Judge  of  the  Chief  Court,  a  Senior 
Chaplain,  and  an  Awful  Warning,  in  the  shape  of  a 
love-match  that  has  gone  wrong,  chained  to  the  trees 
in  the  courtyard.  All  marriages  should  be  made  through 
the  Department,  which  might  be  subordinate  to  the 
Educational  Department,  under  the  same  penalty  as 
that  attaching  to  the  transfer  of  land  without  a  stamped 
document.  But  Government  won't  take  suggestions. 
It  pretends  that  it  is  too  busy.  However,  I  will  put  my 
notion  on  record,  and  explain  the  example  that  illus- 
trates the  theory. 

Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  good  young  man — 
a  first-class  officer  in  his  own  Department — a  man 
with  a  career  before  him  and,  possibly,  a  K.  C.  I.  E. 
at  the  end  of  it.  All  his  superiors  spoke  well  of  him, 
because  he  knew  how  to  hold  his  tongue  and  his  pen 
at  the  proper  times.  There  are,  to-day,  only  eleven 
men  in  India  who  possess  this  secret;  and  they  have 

I 

This  good  young  man  was  quiet  and  self-contained—  | 
too  old  for  his  years  by  far.  Which  always  carries  its 
own  punishment.  Had  a  Subaltern  or  a  Tea-Planter's 
Assistant,  or  anybody  who  enjoys  Hfe  and  has  no  care 
for  to-morrow,  done  what  he  tried  to  do,  not  a  soul 
would  have  cared.  But  when  Peythroppe — the  esti- 
mable, virtuous,  economical,  quiet,  hard-working,  young 
Peythroppe — fell,  there  was  a  flutter  through  five  De- 
partments. 

The  manner  of  his  fall  was  in  this  way.    He  met 


all,  with  one  exception,  attained  great  honour  and  enor* 
mous  incomes. 


KIDNAPPED  13S 

a  Miss  Castries — d'Castries  it  was  originally,  but  the 
family  dropped  the  d'  for  administrative  reasons — and 
he  fell  in  love  with  her  even  more  energetically  than 
he  worked.  Understand  clearly  that  there  was  not 
a  breath  of  a  word  to  be  said  against  Miss  Castries — 
not  a  shadow  of  a  breath.  She  was  good  and  very 
lovely — possessed  what  innocent  people  at  Home  call 
a  'Spanish'  complexion,  with  thick  blue-black  hair 
growing  low  down  on  the  forehead,  into  a  'widow's 
peak,'  and  big  violet  eyes  under  eyebrows  as  black  and 
as  straight  as  the  borders  of  a  Gazette  Extraordinary, 

when  a  big  man  dies.    But ^but ^but Well, 

she  was  a  very  sweet  girl  and  very  pious,  but  for  many 
reasons  she  was  'impossible.'  Quite  so.  All  good 
Mammas  know  what  'impossible'  means.  It  was 
obviously  absurd  that  Peythroppe  should  marry  her. 
The  little  opal-tinted  onyx  at  the  base  of  her  finger-nails 
said  this  as  plainly  as  print.  Further,  marriage  with 
Miss  Castries  meant  marriage  with  several  other  Cas- 
tries—Honorary Lieutenant  Castries  her  Papa,  Mrs. 
Eulalie  Castries  her  Mamma,  and  all  the  ramifications 
of  the  Castries  family,  on  incomes  ranging  from  Rs. 
175  to  Rs.  470  a  month,  and  their  wives  and  connections 
again. 

It  would  have  been  cheaper  for  Peythroppe  to  have 
assaulted  a  Commissioner  with  a  dog-whip,  or  to  have 
burned  the  records  of  a  Deputy-Commissioner's  Office, 
than  to  have  contracted  an  alliance  with  the  Castries. 
It  would  have  weighted  his  after-career  less — even 
imder  a  Government  which  never  [forgets  and  never 
forgives.  Everybody  saw  this  but,  Peythroppe.  He 
was  going  to  marry  Miss  Castries,  he  was — being  of 


136  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

age  and  drawing  a  good  income — and  woe  betide  the 
house  that  would  not  afterwards  receive  Mrs.  Virginie 
Saulez  Peythroppe  with  the  deference  due  to  her  hus- 
band's rank.  That  was  Peythroppe's  ultimatum,  and 
any  remonstrance  drove  him  frantic. 

These  sudden  madnesses  most  afHict  the  sanest  men. 
There  was  a  case  once — but  I  will  tell  you  of  that  later 
on.  You  cannot  account  for  the  mania  except  under 
a  theory  directly  contradicting  the  one  about  the  Place 
where  marriages  are  made.  Peythroppe  was  bumingly 
anxious  to  put  a  millstone  round  his  neck  at  the  outset 
of  his  career;  and  argument  had  not  the  least  effect  on 
him.  He  was  going  to  marry  Miss  Castries,  and  the 
business  was  his  own  business.  He  would  thank  you  to 
keep  your  advice  to  yourself.  With  a  man  in  this 
condition,  mere  words  only  fix  him  in  his  purpose. 
Of  course  he  cannot  see  that  marriage  in  India  does 
not  concern  the  individual  but  the  Government  he 
serves. 

Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Hauksbee — the  most  won- 
derful woman  in  India?  She  saved  PlufHes  from  Mrs. 
Reiver,  won  Tarrion  his  appointment  in  the  Foreign 
Office,  and  was  defeated  in  open  field  by  Mrs.  Cusack- 
Bremmil.  She  heard  of  the  lamentable  condition  of  Pey- 
throppe, and  her  brain  struck  out  the  plan  that  saved 
him.  She  had  the  wisdom  of  the  Serpent,  the  logical 
coherence  of  the  Man,  the  fearlessness  of  the  Child,  and 
the  triple  intuition  of  the  Woman.  Never — no,  never 
■ — as  long  as  a  tonga  buckets  down  the  Solon  dip,  or  the 
couples  go  a-riding  at  the  back  of  Summer  Hill,  will 
there  be  such  a  genius  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  She  attended 
the  consultation  of  Three  Men  on  Peythroppe's  case;  and 


KIDNAPPED  137 

The  stood  up  with  the  lash  of  her  riding-whip  between 
•  ler  lips  and  spake. 


Three  weeks  later,  Peythroppe  dined  with  the  Three 
Men,  and  the  Gazette  of  India  came  in.  Peythroppe 
found  to  his  surprise  that  he  had  been  gazetted  a  month's 
leave.  Don't  ask  me  how  this  was  managed.  I  beheve 
firmly  that,  if  Mrs.  Hauksbee  gave  the  order,  the  whole 
Great  Indian  Administration  would  stand  on  its  head. 
The  Three  Men  had  also  a  month's  leave  each.  Pey- 
throppe put  the  Gazette  down  and  said  bad  words.  Then 
there  came  from  the  compound  the  soft  'pad-pad'  of 
camels — 'thieves'  camels,'  the  Bikaneer  breed  that 
don't  bubble  and  howl  when  they  sit  down  and  get  up. 

After  that,  I  don't  know  what  happened.  This  much 
is  certain.  Peythroppe  disappeared — vanished  like 
smoke — and  the  long  foot-rest  chair  in  the  house  of  the 
Three  Men  was  broken  to  splinters.  Also  a  bedstead 
departed  from  one  of  the  bedrooms. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  said  that  Mr.  Peythroppe  was  shoot- 
ing in  Rajputana  with  the  Three  Men;  so  we  were  com- 
pelled to  believe  her. 

At  the  end  of  the  month,  Peythroppe  was  gazetted 
twenty  days'  extension  of  leave;  but  there  was  wrath 
and  lamentation  in  the  house  of  Castries.  The  mar- 
riage-day had  been  fixed,  but  the  bridegroom  never 
came:  and  the  D'Silvas,  Pereiras,  and  Ducketts  lifted 
their  voices  and  mocked  Honorary  Lieutenant  Castries 
as  one  who  had  been  basely  imposed  upon.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  went  to  the  wedding,  and  was  much  aston- 
ished when  Peytiiroppe  did  not  appear.    After  seven 


138  1>LA1N  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

weeks,  Peythroppe  and  the  Three  Men  returned  from 
Rajputana.  Peythroppe  was  in  hard  tough  condition, 
rather  white,  and  more  self-contained  than  ever. 

One  of  the  Three  Men  had  a  cut  on  his  nose,  caused 
by  the  kick  of  a  gun.  Twelve-bores  kick  rather  curi- 
ously. 

Then  came  Honorary  Lieutenant  Castries,  seeking 
for  the  blood  of  his  perfidious  son-in-law  to  be.  He 
said  things — vulgar  and  'impossible'  things  which 
showed  the  raw  rough  *  ranker'  below  the  'Honorary,' 
and  I  fancy  Peythroppe's  eyes  were  opened.  Anyhow, 
he  held  his  peace  till  the  end;  when  he  spoke  briefly. 
Honorary  Lieutenant  Castries  asked  for  a  'peg'  before 
he  went  away  to  die  or  bring  a  suit  for  breach  of 
promise. 

Miss  Castries  was  a  very  good  girl.  She  said  that 
she  would  have  no  breach  of  promise  suits.  She  said 
that,  if  she  was  not  a  lady,  she  was  refined  enough  to 
know  that  ladies  kept  their  broken  hearts  to  themselves; 
and,  as  she  ruled  her  parents,  nothing  happened.  Later 
on,  she  married  a  most  respectable  and  gentlemanly  per- 
son. He  travelled  for  an  enterprising  firm  in  Calcutta, 
and  was  all  that  a  good  husband  should  be. 

So  Peythroppe  came  to  his  right  mind  again,  and 
did  much  good  work,  and  was  honoured  by  all  who  knew 
him.  One  of  these  days  he  will  marry;  but  he  will 
marry  a  sweet  pink-and-white  maiden,  on  the  Govern- 
ment House  List,  with  a  little  money  and  some  influential 
connections,  as  every  wise  man  should.  And  he  will 
never,  all  his  life,  tell  her  what  happened  during  the 
seven  weeks  of  his  shooting-tour  in  Rajputana. 

But  just  think  how  much  trouble  and  expense— 


KIDNAPPED  139 

for  camel-hire  is  not  cheap,  and  those  Bikaneer  brutes 
had  to  be  fed  like  humans — might  have  been  saved  by 
a  properly  conducted  Matrimonial  Department,  under 
the  control  of  the  Director- General  of  Education,  but 
corresponding  direct  with  the  Viceroy. 


I 


THE  ARREST  OF  LIEUTENANT  GOLIGHTLY 

*I've  forgotten  the  countersign,'  sez  'e. 

*0h!    You  'ave,  'ave  you? '  sez  I. 

*  But  I'm  the  Colonel,'  sez  'e. 

'Oh!  You  are,  are  you?'  sez  I.  'Colonel  or  nor  Colonel,  you  wait* 
*ere  till  I'm  relieved,  an'  the  Sarjint  reports  on  your  ugly  old  mug.  ChoopT 
aezl. 


An*  s'elp  me  soul,  'twas  the  Colonel  after  all!  But  I  was  a  recruity  then. 
— The  Unedited  Autobiography  of  Private  Ortlteris. 

If  there  was  one  thing  on  which  Golightly  prided 
himself  more  than  another,  it  was  looking  like  'an 
Officer  and  a  Gentleman.'  He  said  it  was  for  the 
honour  of  the  Service  that  he  attired  himself  so  elab- 
orately; but  those  who  knew  him  best  said  that  it  was 
just  personal  vanity.  There  was  no  harm  about  Go- 
lightly — not  an  ounce.  He  recognised  a  horse  when  he 
saw  one,  and  could  do  more  than  fill  a  cantle.  He 
played  a  very  fair  game  at  biUiards,  and  was  a  sound 
man  at  the  whist- table.  Every  one  liked  him;  and 
nobody  ever  dreamed  of  seeing  him  handcuffed  on  a 
station  platform  as  a  deserter.  But  this  sad  thing  hap- 
pened. 

He  was  going  down  from  Dalhousie,  at  the  end  of 
his  leave — riding  down.  He  had  run  his  leave  as 
fine  as  he  dared,  and  wanted  to  come  down  in  a  hurry. 

140 


THE  ARREST  OF  LIEUTENANT  GOLIGHTLY        .14X 

It  was  fairly  warm  at  Dalhousie,  and,  knowing  what  to 
expect  below,  he  descended  in  a  new  khaki  suit — tight 
fitting — of  a  delicate  olive-green;  a  peacock-blue  tie, 
white  collar,  and  a  snowy  white  solah  hehnet.  He  prided 
himself  on  looking  neat  even  when  he  was  riding  post. 
He  did  look  neat,  and  he  was  so  deeply  concerned  about 
his  appearance  before  he  started  that  he  quite  forgot  to 
take  anything  but  some  small  change  with  him.  He  left 
all  his  notes  at  the  hotel.  His  servants  had  gone  down  the 
road  before  him,  to  be  ready  in  waiting  at  Pathankote 
with  a  change  of  gear.  That  was  what  he  called  travelling 
in  '  light  marching-order.'  He  was  proud  of  his  faculty  of 
organisation — what  we  call  bundobusL 

Twenty-two  miles  out  of  Dalhousie  it  began  to  rain — 
not  a  mere  hill-shower,  but  a  good,  tepid,  monsoonish 
downpour.  GoHghtly  bustled  on,  wishing  that  he  had 
brought  an  umbrella.  The  dust  on  the  roads  turned  into 
mud,  and  the  pony  mired  a  good  deal.  So  did  GoHghtly's 
khaki  gaiters.  But  he  kept  on  steadily  and  tried  to  think 
how  pleasant  the  coolth  was. 

His  next  pony  was  rather  a  brute  at  starting,  and, 
GoHghtly's  hands  being  sHppery  with  the  rain,  contrived 
to  get  rid  of  GoHghtly  at  a  corner.  He  chased  the  animal, 
caught  it,  and  went  ahead  briskly.  The  spiU  had  not  im- 
proved his  clothes  or  his  temper,  and  he  had  lost  one  spur. 
He  kept  the  other  one  employed.  By  the  time  that  stage 
was  ended,  the  pony  had  had  as  much  exercise  as  he 
wanted,  and,  in  spite  of  the  rain,  GoHghtly  was  sweating 
freely.  At  the  end  of  another  miserable  half-hour  Go- 
Hghtly found  the  world  disappear  before  his  eyes  in 
clammy  pulp.  The  rain  had  turned  the  pith  of  his  huge 
and  snowy  solah-topee  into  an  evil-smelling  dough,  and  it 


142  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

had  closed  on  his  head  hke  a  half-opened  mushroom.  Also 
the  green  Hning  was  beginning  to  run. 

GoKghtly  did  not  say  anything  worth  recording  here. 
He  tore  off  and  squeezed  up  as  much  of  the  brim  as  was  in 
his  eyes  and  ploughed  on.  The  back  of  the  helmet  was 
flapping  on  liis  neck  and  the  sides  stuck  to  his  ears,  but 
the  leather  band  and  green  lining  kept  tilings  roughly  to- 
gether, so  that  the  hat  did  not  actually  melt  away  where 
it  flapped. 

Presently,  the  pulp  and  the  green  stuff  made  a  sort  of 
slimy  mildew  which  ran  over  GoHghtly  in  several  direc- 
tions— down  his  back  and  bosom  for  choice.  The  khaki 
colour  ran  too — it  was  really  shockingly  bad  dye — and 
sections  of  GoKghtly  were  brown,  and  patches  were  violet, 
and  contours  were  ochre,  and  streaks  were  ruddy-red,  and 
blotches  were  nearly  white,  according  to  the  nature  and 
peculiarities  of  the  dye.  When  he  took  out  his  handker- 
chief to  wipe  his  face,  and  the  green  of  the  hat-lining  and 
the  purple  stuff  that  had  soaked  through  on  to  his  neck 
from  the  tie  became  thoroughly  mixed,  the  effect  was 
amazing. 

Near  Dhar  the  ram  stopped  and  the  evening  sun  came 
out  and  dried  him  up  sHghtly.  It  fLxed  the  colours,  too. 
Three  miles  from  Pathankote  the  last  pony  fell  dead  lame, 
and  Golightly  was  forced  to  walk.  He  pushed  on  into 
Pathankote  to  find  his  servants.  He  did  not  know  then 
that  his  khitmatgar  had  stopped  by  the  roadside  to  get 
drunk,  and  would  come  on  the  next  day  saying  that  he 
had  sprained  his  ankle.  When  he  got  into  Pathankote  he 
couldn't  find  his  servants,  his  boots  were  stiff  and  ropy 
with  mud,  and  there  were  large  quantities  of  dust  about 
his  body.   The  blue  tie  had  run  as  much  as  the  khaku   §Q 


THE  ARREST  OF  LIEUTENANT  GOLIGHTLY  143 

he  took  it  off  with  the  collar  and  threw  it  away.  Then  he 
said  something  about  servants  generally  and  tried  to  get  a 
peg.  He  paid  eight  annas  for  the  drink,  and  this  revealed 
to  him  that  he  had  only  six  annas  more  in  his  pocket— or 
in  the  world  as  he  stood  at  that  hour. 

He  went  to  the  Station-Mas ter  to  negotiate  for  a  first- 
class  ticket  to  Khasa,  where  he  was  stationed.  The  book- 
ing-clerk said  something  to  the  Station-Master,  the 
Station-Master  said  something  to  the  telegraph  clerk,  and 
the  three  looked  at  hun  with  curiosity.  They  asked  him 
to  wait  for  half  an  hour,  while  they  telegraphed  to  Umrit- 
sar  for  authority.  So  he  waited  and  four  constables  came 
and  grouped  themselves  picturesquely  round  him.  Just 
as  he  was  preparing  to  ask  them  to  go  away,  the  Station- 
Master  said  that  he  would  give  the  Sakih  a  ticket  to  Um- 
ritsar,  if  the  Sahib  would  kindly  come  inside  the  booking- 
office.  Golightly  stepped  inside,  and  the  next  thing  he 
knew  was  that  a  constable  was  attached  to  each  of  his 
legs  and  arms,  while  the  Station-Master  was  trying  to 
cram  a  mail-bag  over  liis  head. 

There  was  a  very  fair  scuffle  all  round  the  booking- 
office,  and  Golightly  took  a  nasty  cut  over  his  eye  through 
falling  against  a  table.  But  the  constables  were  too  much 
for  him,  and  they  and  the  Station-Master  handcuffed  him 
securely.  As  soon  as  the  mail-bag  was  sHpped,  he  began 
expressing  his  opinions,  and  the  head  constable  said, 
'Without  doubt  this  is  the  soldier-Englishman  we  re- 
quired. Listen  to  the  abuse ! '  Then  Golightly  asked  the 
Station-Master  what  the  this  and  the  that  the  proceedings 
meant.     The  Station-Master  told  him  he  was  'Private 

John  Binkle  of  the Regiment,  5  ft.  9  in.,  fair  hair, 

gray  eyes,  and  a  dissipated  appearance,  no  marks  on  the 


144  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

body/  who  had  deserted  a  fortnight  ago.  Golightly  began 
explaining  at  great  length;  and  the  more  he  explained  the 
less  the  Station-Master  believed  him.  He  said  that  no 
Lieutenant  could  look  such  a  ruffian  as  did  Golightly,  and 
that  his  instructions  were  to  send  his  capture  under 
proper  escort  to  Umritsar.  Golightly  was  feehng  very 
damp  and  imcomfortable  and  the  language  he  used  was 
not  fit  for  publication,  even  in  an  expurgated  form.  The 
four  constables  saw  him  safe  to  Umritsar  in  an  inter- 
mediate' compartment,  and  he  spent  the  four-hour 
journey  in  abusing  them  as  fluently  as  his  knowledge  of 
the  vernaculars  allowed. 

At  Umritsar  he  was  bundled  out  on  the  platform  into 

the  arms  of  a  Corporal  and  two  men  of  the Regiment. 

Golightly  drew  himself  up  and  tried  to  carry  off  matters 
jauntily.  He  did  not  feel  too  jaunty  in  handcuffs,  with 
four  constables  behind  him,  and  the  blood  from  the  cut  on 
his  forehead  stiffening  on  his  left  cheek.  The  Corporal 
was  not  jocular  either.  Golightly  got  as  far  as — '  This  is  a 
very  absurd  mistake,  my  men/  when  the  Corporal  told 
him  to  '  stow  his  lip '  and  come  along.  GoKghtly  did  not 
want  to  come  along.  He  desired  to  stop  and  explain.  He 
explained  very  well  indeed,  until  the  Corporal  cut  in  with 
— '  You  a  orficer!  It's  the  like  o'  you  as  brings  disgrace  on 
the  likes  of  us.  Bloomin'  fine  orficer  you  are!  I  know 
your  regiment.  The  Rogue's  March  is  the  quickstep 
where  you  come  from.  You're  a  black  shame  to  the 
Service.' 

Golightly  kept  his  temper,  and  began  explaining  all 
over  again  from  the  beginning.  Then  he  was  marched  out 
of  the  rain  into  the  refreshment-room  and  told  not  to 
make  a  qualified  fool  of  himself.    The  men  were  going  to 


THE  ARREST  OF  LIEUTENANT  GOLIGHTLY         145 

run  him  up  to  Fort  Govindghar.  And  'ninning  up'  is  a 
performance  almost  as  undignified  as  the  Frog  March. 

Golightly  was  nearly  hysterical  with  rage  and  the  chill 
and  the  mistake  and  the  handcuffs  and  the  headache  that 
the  cut  on  his  forehead  had  given  him.  He  really  laid  him- 
self out  to  express  what  was  in  his  mind.  When  he  had 
quite  finished  and  his  throat  was  feeling  dry,  one  of  the 
men  said,  ^IVe  'eard  a  few  beggars  in  the  cHnk  bUnd,  stiff 
and  crack  on  a  bit;  but  I've  never  'eard  any  one  to  touch 
this  'ere  ^'orficer.'"  They  were  not  angry  with  him. 
They  rather  admired  him.  They  had  some  beer  at  the 
refreshment-room,  and  offered  Golightly  some  too,  be- 
cause he  had  'swore  won'erfuL'  They  asked  him  to  tell 
them  all  about  the  adventures  of  Private  John  Binkle 
while  he  was  loose  on  the  country-side;  and  that  made 
Golightly  wilder  than  ever.  If  he  had  kept  his  wits  about 
him  he  would  have  been  quiet  until  an  ofi&cer  came;  but 
he  attempted  to  run. 

Now  the  butt  of  a  Martini  in  the  small  of  your  back 
hurts  a  great  deal,  and  rotten,  rain-soaked  khaki  tears 
easily  when  two  men  are  jerking  at  your  collar. 

Golightly  rose  from  the  floor  feeling  very  sick  and 
giddy,  with  his  sliirt  ripped  open  all  down  his  breast  and 
nearly  all  down  his  back.  He  yielded  to  his  luck,  and  at 
that  point  the  down-train  from  Lahore  came  in,  carrying 
one  of  GoHghtly's  Majors. 

This  is  the  Major's  evidence  in  full — 

'There  was  the  sound  of  a  scuffle  in  the  second-class  re- 
freshment-room, so  I  went  in  and  saw  the  most  viUainous 
loafer  that  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  His  boots  and  breeches 
were  plastered  with  mud  and  beer-stains.  He  wore  a 
muddy-white  dunghill  sort  of  thing  on  his  head,  and  it 


146  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

hung  down  in  slips  on  his  shoulders,  which  were  a  good 
deal  scratched.  He  was  half  in  and  haK  out  of  a  shirt  as 
nearly  in  two  pieces  as  it  could  be,  and  he  was  begging  the 
guard  to  look  at  the  name  on  the  tail  of  it.  As  he  had 
rucked  the  shirt  all  over  his  head,  I  couldn't  at  first  see 
who  he  was,  but  I  fancied  that  he  was  a  man  in  the  first 
stage  of  D.  T.  from  the  way  he  swore  while  he  wrestled 
with  his  rags.  When  he  turned  round,  and  I  had  made 
allowances  for  a  lump  as  big  as  a  pork-pie  over  one  eye, 
and  some  green  war-paint  on  the  face,  and  some  violet 
stripes  round  the  neck,  I  saw  that  it  was  Golightly.  He 
was  very  glad  to  see  me,  said  the  Major,  *  and  he  hoped  I 
would  not  tell  the  Mess  about  it.  /  didn't,  but  you  can, 
if  you  Hke,  now  that  Golightly  has  gone  Home.' 

GoHghtly  spent  the  greater  part  of  that  summer  in 
trying  to  get  the  Corporal  and  the  two  soldiers  tried  by 
Court-Martial  for  arresting  an  'officer  and  a  gentleman.' 
They  were,  of  course,  very  sorry  for  their  error.  But  the 
tale  leaked  into  the  regimental  canteen,  and  thence  ran 
about  the  Province. 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO 

A  stone's  throw  out  on  either  hand 
From  that  well-ordered  road  we  tread, 

And  all  the  world  is  wild  and  strange: 
Churel  and  ghoul  and  Djinn  and  sprite 
Shall  bear  us  company  to-night, 
For  we  have  reached  the  Oldest  Land 

Wherein  the  Powers  of  Darkness  range. 

— From  the  Dusk  to  the  Dawn, 

The  house  of  Suddhoo,  near  the  Taksali  Gate,  is  two- 
storied,  with  four  carved  windows  of  old  brown  wood,  and 
a  flat  roof.  You  may  recognise  it  by  five  red  hand-prints 
arranged  Kke  the  Five  of  Diamonds  on  the  whitewash  be- 
tween the  upper  windows.  Bhagwan  Dass  the  grocer  and 
a  man  who  says  he  gets  his  living  by  seal-cutting  live  in 
the  lower  story  with  a  troop  of  wives,  servants,  friends, 
and  retainers.  The  two  upper  rooms  used  to  be  occupied 
by  Janoo  and  Azizun  and  a  Httle  black-and-tan  terrier 
that  was  stolen  from  an  Englisnman's  house  and  given  to 
Janoo  by  a  soldier.  To-day,  only  Janoo  lives  in  the  upper 
rooms.  Suddhoo  sleeps  on  the  roof  generally,  except 
when  he  sleeps  in  the  street.  He  used  to  go  to  Peshawar 
in  the  cold  weather  to  visit  his  son  who  sells  curiosities 
near  the  Edwardes'  Gate,  and  then  he  slept  under  a  real 
mud  roof.  Suddhoo  is  a  great  friend  of  mine,  because  his 
cousin  had  a  son  who  secured,  thanks  to  my  recommen- 
dation, the  post  of  head-messenger  to  a  big  firm  in  the 

147 


148  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Station.  Suddhoo  says  that  God  will  make  me  a  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor one  of  these  days.  I  dare  say  his 
prophecy  will  come  true.  He  is  very,  very  old,  with  white 
hair  and  no  teeth  worth  showing,  and  he  has  outlived  his 
wits — outlived  nearly  everything  except  his  fondness  for 
his  son  at  Peshawar.  Janoo  and  Azizun  are  Kashmiris, 
Ladies  of  the  City,  and  theirs  was  an  ancient  and  more  or 
less  honourable  profession;  but  Azizun  has  since  married 
a  medical  student  from  the  North-West  and  has  settled 
down  to  c.  most  respectable  hfe  somewhere  near  Bareilly. 
Bhagwan  Dass  is  an  extortionate  and  an  adulterator.  He 
is  very  rich.  The  man  who  is  supposed  to  get  his  living 
by  seal-cutting  pretends  to  be  very  poor.  This  lets  you 
know  as  much  as  is  necessary  of  the  four  principal 
tenants  in  the  house  of  Suddhoo.  Then  there  is  Me  of 
course;  but  I  am  only  the  chorus  that  comes  in  at  the  end 
to  explain  things.     So  I  do  not  count. 

Suddhoo  was  not  clever.  The  man  who  pretended  to 
cut  seals  was  the  cleverest  of  them  all — Bhagwan  Dass 
only  knew  how  to  lie — except  Janoo.  She  was  also 
beautiful,  but  that  was  her  own  affair. 

Suddhoo's  son  at  Peshawar  was  attacked  by  pleurisy, 
and  old  Suddhoo  was  troubled.  The  seal-cutter  man 
heard  of  Suddhoo's  anxiety  and  made  capital  out  of  it. 
He  was  abreast  of  the  times.  He  got  a  friend  in  Pesha- 
war to  telegraph  daily  accounts  of  the  son's  health.  And 
here  the  story  begins. 

Suddhoo's  cousin's  son  told  me,  one  evemng,  that 
Suddhoo  wanted  to  see  me;  that  he  was  too  old  and  feeble 
to  come  personally,  and  that  I  should  be  conferring  an 
everlasting  honour  on  the  House  of  Suddhoo  if  I  went  to 
him.    I  went;  but  I  think,  seeing  how  well  off  Suddhoo, 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO  X4f 

was  then,  that  he  might  have  sent  something  better  than 
an  ekka,  which  jolted  fearfully,  to  haul  out  a  future 
Lieutenant-Governor  to  the  City  on  a  muggy  April 
evening.  The  ekka  did  not  run  quickly.  It  was  full  dark 
when  we  pulled  up  opposite  the  door  of  Ranjit  Singh's 
Tomb  near  the  main  gate  of  the  Fort.  Here  was  Suddhoo, 
and  he  said  that,  by  reason  of  my  condescension,  it  was 
absolutely  certain  that  I  should  become  a  Lieutenant- 
Governor  while  my  hair  was  yet  black.  Then  we  talked 
about  the  weather  and  the  state  of  my  health,  and  the 
wheat  crops,  for  fifteen  minutes,  in  the  Huzuri  Bagh 
under  the  stars. 

Suddhoo  came  to  the  point  at  last.  He  said  that  Janoo 
had  told  him  that  there  was  an  order  of  the  Sirkar  against 
magic,  because  it  was  feared  thr.t  magic  might  one  day 
kill  the  Empress  of  India.  I  didn't  know  anything  about 
the  state  of  the  law;  but  I  fancied  that  something  interest- 
ing was  going  to  happen.  I  said  that  so  far  from  magic 
being  discouraged  by  the  Government  it  was  highly  com- 
mended. The  greatest  officials  of  the  State  practised  it 
themselves.  (If  the  Financial  Statement  isn't  magic,  I 
don't  know  what  is.)  Then,  to  encourage  him  further,  I 
said  that,  if  there  was  ^xiyjadoo  afoot,  I  had  not  the  least 
objection  to  giving  it  my  countenance  and  sanction,  and 
to  seeing  that  it  was  clean  jadoo — white  magic,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  unclean  jadoo  which  kills  folk.  It 
took  a  long  time  before  Suddh  :)o  admitted  that  this  was 
just  what  he  had  asked  me  to  come  for.  Then  he  told  me, 
in  jerks  and  quavers,  that  the  man  who  said  he  cut  seals 
was  a  sorcerer  of  the  cleanest  kind;  that  every  day  he 
gave  Suddhoo  news  of  the  sick  son  in  Peshawar  more 
quickly  than  the  lightning  could  fly,  and  that  this  new* 


ISO  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

was  always  corroborated  by  the  letters.  Further,  that  he 
had  told  Suddhoo  how  a  great  danger  was  threatening  his 
son,  which  could  be  removed  by  clean  jadoo;  and,  of 
course,  heavy  payment.  I  saw  exactly  how  the  land  lay, 
and  told  Suddhoo  that  I  also  imderstood  a  MttlQ  jadoo  in 
the  Western  line,  and  would  go  to  his  house  to  see  that 
everything  was  done  decently  and  in  order.  We  set  off 
together;  and  on  the  way  Suddhoo  told  me  that  he  had 
already  paid  the  seal-cutter  between  one  hundred  and 
two  hundred  rupees,  and  the  jadoo  of  that  night  would 
cost  two  hundred  more.  This  was  cheap,  he  said,  con- 
sidering the  greatness  of  his  son's  danger;  but  I  do  not 
think  he  meant  it. 

The  Hghts  were  all  cloaked  in  the  front  of  the  house 
when  we  came.  I  could  hear  awful  noises  from  behind  the 
seal-cutter's  shop-front,  as  though  some  one  were  groan- 
ing his  soul  out.  Suddhoo  shook  all  over,  and  while  v/e 
groped  our  way  upstairs  told  me  that  the  jadoo  had  begun. 
Janoo  and  Azizun  met  us  at  the  stair-head,  and  told  us 
that  thejadoo-work  would  take  place  in  their  rooms,  be- 
cause there  was  more  space  there.  Janoo  is  a  lady  of  a 
freethinking  turn  of  mind.  She  whispered  that  the  jadoo 
was  an  invention  to  get  money  out  of  Suddhoo,  and  that 
the  seal-cutter  would  go  to  a  hot  place  when  he  died. 
Suddhoo  was  nearly  crying  with  fear  and  old  age.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  the  half-light,  repeating 
his  son's  name  over  and  over  again,  and  asking  Azizun  if 
the  seal-cutter  should  not  make  a  reduction  in  the  case  of 
his  own  landlord.  Janoo  pulled  me  over  to  the  shadow  in 
the  recess  of  the  carved  bow-windows.  The  boards  were 
up  and  the  rooms  were  only  lit  by  one  tiny  oil-lamp. 
There  was  no  chance  of  my  being  seen  if  I  stayed  still. 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO  151 

Presently,  the  groans  below  ceased,  and  we  heard  steps 
on  the  staircase.  That  was  the  seal-cutter.  He  stopped 
outside  the  door  as  the  terrier  barked  and  Azizun  fumbled 
at  the  chain,  and  he  told  Suddhoo  to  blow  out  the  lamp. 
This  left  the  place  in  jet  darkness,  except  for  the  red  glow 
from  the  two  huqas  that  belonged  to  Janoo  and  Azizun. 
The  seal-cutter  came  in,  and  I  heard  Suddhoo  throw  him- 
self down  on  the  floor  and  groan.  Azizun  caught  her 
breath,  and  Janoo  backed  on  to  one  of  the  beds  with  a 
shudder.  There  was  a  clink  of  something  metallic,  and 
then  shot  up  a  pale  blue-green  flame  near  the  ground. 
The  light  was  just  enough  to  show  Azizun,  pressed 
against  one  comer  of  the  room  with  the  terrier  between 
her  knees;  Janoo  with  her  hands  clasped,  leaning  for- 
ward as  she  sat  on  the  bed;  Suddhoo,  face  down,  quiver- 
ing, and  the  seal-cutter. 

I  hope  I  may  never  see  another  man  like  that  seal- 
cutter.  He  was  stripped  to  the  waist,  with  a  wreath 
of  white  jasmine  as  thick  as  my  wrist  round  his  fore- 
head, a  salmon-coloured  loin-cloth  round  his  middle, 
and  a  steel  bangle  on  each  ankle.  This  was  not  awe- 
inspiring.  It  was  the  face  of  the  man  that  turned  me 
cold.  It  was  blue-gray,  in  the  first  place.  In  the 
second,  the  eyes  were  rolled  back  tiU  you  could  only 
see  the  whites  of  them;  and,  in  the  third,  the  face  was 
the  face  of  a  demon — a  ghoul — anything  you  please 
except  of  the  sleek,  oily  old  ruffian  who  sat  in  the  day- 
time over  his  turning-lathe  downstairs.  He  was  lying 
on  his  stomach  with  his  arms  turned  and  crossed  be- 
hind him,  as  if  he  had  been  thrown  down  pinioned. 
His  head  and  neck  were  the  only  parts  of  him  off  the 
floor.    They  were  neaxly  at  right  angles  to  the  bodyj 


15»  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

like  the  head  of  a  cobra  at  spring.  It  was  ghastly. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room,  on  the  bare  earth  floor,  stood 
a  big,  deep,  brass  basin,  with  a  pale  blue-green  Hght 
floating  in  the  centre  Hke  a  night-light.  Roui.d  that 
basin  the  man  on  the  floor  wriggled  nimself  three  times. 
How  he  did  it  I  do  not  know.  I  could  see  the  muscles 
ripple  along  his  spine  and  fall  smooth  again;  but  I  could 
not  see  any  other  motion.  The  head  seemed  the  only 
thing  aHve  about  him,  except  that  slow  curl  and  uncurl 
of  the  labouring  back-muscles.  Janoo  from  the  bed 
was  breathing  seventy  to  the  minute;  Azizun  held  her 
hands  before  her  eyes;  and  old  Suddhoo,  fingering  at  the 
dirt  that  had  got  into  his  white  beard,  was  crying  to 
himself.  The  horror  of  it  was  that  the  creeping,  crawly 
thing  made  no  sound — only  crawled!  And,  remember, 
this  lasted  for  ten  minutes,  wliiie  the  terrier  whined,  and 
Azizun  shuddered,  and  Janoo  gasped,  and  Suddhoo  cried. 
I  felt  the  hair  Uft  at  the  back  of  my  head,  and  my 
heart  thump  like  a  thermantidote  paddle.  Luckily,  the 
seal-cutter  betrayed  himself  by  his  most  impressive 
trick  and  made  me  calm  again.  After  he  had  finished 
that  unspeakable  triple  crawl,  he  stretched  his  head 
away  from  the  floor  as  high  as  he  could,  and  sent  out 
a  jet  of  fire  from  his  nostrils.  Now  I  knew  how  fire- 
spouting  is  done — I  can  do  it  myself — so  I  felt  at  ease. 
The  business  was  a  fraud.  If  he  had  only  kept  to  that 
crawl  without  trying  to  raise  the  effect,  goodness  knows 
what  I  might  not  have  thought.  Both  the  girls  shrieked 
at  the  jet  of  fire  and  the  head  dropped,  chin-down  on  the 
floor,  with  a  thud;  the  whole  body  lying  then  Hke  a 
corpse  with  its  arms  trussed.  There  was  a  pause  of  five 
full  minutes  after  this,  and  the  blue-green  flame  died 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO  XS| 

down.  Janoo  stooped  to  settle  one  of  her  anklets,  while 
Azizun  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  took  the  terrier 
in  her  arms.  Suddhoo  put  out  an  arm  mechanically 
to  Janoo's  huqa,  and  she  sHd  it  across  the  floor  with  her 
foot.  Directly  above  the  body  and  on  the  wall,  were  a 
a  couple  of  flaming  portraits,  in  stamped-paper  frames,  of 
the  Queen  and  the  Prince  of  Wales.  They  looked  down 
on  the  performance,  and  to  my  thinking,  seemed  to 
heighten  the  grotesqueness  of  it  all. 

Just  when  the  silence  was  getting  imendurable,  the 
body  turned  over  and  rolled  away  from  the  basin  to 
the  side  of  the  room,  where  it  lay  stomach-up.  There 
was  a  faint  'plop^  from  the  basin — exactly  like  the 
noise  a  fish  makes  when  it  takes  a  fly — and  the  green 
light  in  the  centre  revived. 

I  looked  at  the  basin,  and  saw,  bobbing  in  the  water, 
the  dried,  shrivelled,  black  head  of  a  native  baby — 
open  eyes,  open  mouth,  and  shaved  scalp.  It  was  worse, 
being  so  very  sudden,  than  the  crawling  exhibition. 
We  had  no  time  to  say  anything  before  it  began  to  speak. 

Read  Poe's  account  of  the  voice  that  came  from  the 
mesmerised  dying  man,  and  you  will  realise  less  than 
one-half  of  the  horror  of  that  head's  voice. 

There  was  an  interval  of  a  second  or  two  between 
each  word,  and  a  sort  of  'ring,  ring,  ring,'  in  the  note 
of  the  voice,  like  the  timbre  of  a  bell.  It  pealed  slowly, 
as  if  talking  to  itself,  for  several  minutes  before  I  got 
rid  of  my  cold  sweat.  Then  the  blessed  solution  struck 
me.  I  looked  at  the  body  lying  near  the  doorway,  and 
saw,  just  where  the  hollow  of  the  throat  joins  on  the 
shoulders,  a  muscle  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  any 
man's  regular  breathing  twitching  away  steadily.    The 


154  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

whole  thing  was  a  careful  reproduction  of  the  Egyptian 
teraphin  that  one  reads  about  sometimes;  and  the  voice 
was  as  clever  and  as  appalling  a  piece  of  ventriloquism 
as  one  could  wish  to  hear.  All  this  time  the  head  was 
4ip-lip-lapping'  against  the  side  of  the  basin,  and  speak- 
ing. It  told  Suddhoo,  on  his  face  again  whining,  of  his 
son's  ilhiess  and  of  the  state  of  the  illness  up  to  the  eve- 
ning of  that  very  night.  I  always  shall  respect  the  seal- 
cutter  for  keeping  so  faithfully  to  the  time  of  the  Pesh- 
awar telegrams.  It  went  on  to  say  that  skilled  doctors 
were  night  and  day  watching  over  the  man's  Ufe;  and 
that  he  would  eventually  recover  if  the  fee  to  the  potent 
sorcerer,  whose  servant  was  the  head  in  the  basin,  were 
doubled. 

Here  the  mistake  from  the  artistic  point  of  view 
came  in.  To  ask  for  twice  your  stipulated  fee  in  a 
voice  that  Lazarus  might  have  used  when  he  rose  from, 
the  dead,  is  absurd.  Janoo,  who  is  really  a  woman  of 
mascuHne  intellect,  saw  this  as  quickly  as  I  did.  I  heard 
her  say  ^Asli  nahin!  Fareib  T  scornfully  under  her 
breath;  and  just  as  she  said  so,  the  light  in  the  basin  died 
out,  the  head  stopped  talking,  and  we  heard  the  room 
door  creak  on  its  hinges.  Then  Janoo  struck  a  match, 
lit  the  lamp,  and  we  saw  that  head,  basin,  and  seal-cutter 
were  gone.  Suddhoo  was  wringing  his  hands  and  ex- 
plaining to  any  one  who  cared  to  listen,  that,  if  his  chance 
of  eternal  salvation  depended  on  it,  he  could  not  raise 
another  two  hundred  rupees.  Azizun  was  nearly  in 
hysterics  in  the  corner,  while  Janoo  sat  down  composedly 
on  one  of  the  beds  to  discuss  the  probabiHties  of  the  whole 
thing  being  a  bunao,  or  'make-up.' 

I  explained  as  much  as  I  knew  of  the  seal-cutter's  way 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO  155 

of  jadoo;  but  her  argument  was  much  more  simple 
— 'The  magic  that  is  always  demanding  gifts  is  no  true 
magic/  said  she.  'My  mother  told  me  that  the  only 
potent  love-spells  are  those  which  are  told  you  for  love 
This  seal-cutter  man  is  a  liar  and  a  devil.  I  dare  not 
tell,  do  anything,  or  get  anything  done,  because  I  am  in 
debt  to  Bhagwan  Dass  the  hunnia  for  two  gold  rings  and 
a  heavy  anklet.  I  must  get  my  food  from  his  shop. 
The  seal-cutter  is  the  friend  of  Bhagwan  Dass,  and  he 
would  poison  my  food.  A  iooVs  jadoo  has  been  going  on 
for  ten  days,  and  has  cost  Suddhoo  many  rupees  each 
night.  The  seal-cutter  used  black  hens  and  lemons  and 
mantras  before.  He  never  showed  us  anything  like 
this  till  to-night.  Azizun  is  a  fool,  and  will  be  a  purdah- 
nashin  soon.  Suddhoo  has  lost  his  strength  and  his 
wits.  See  now!  I  had  hoped  to  get  from  Suddhoo 
many  rupees  while  he  lived,  and  many  more  after  his 
death;  and  behold,  he  is  spending  everything  on  that 
offspring  of  a  devil  and  a  she-ass,  the  seal-cutter!' 

Here  I  said,  'But  what  induced  Suddhoo  to  drag 
me  into  the  business?  •  Of  course  I  can  speak  to  the 
seal-cutter,  and  he  shall  refund.  The  whole  thing  is 
child's  talk — shame — and  senseless.' 

'Suddhoo  is  an  old  child,'  said  Janoo.  *  He  has  lived 
on  the  roofs  these  seventy  years  and  is  as  senseless  as  a 
milch-goat.  He  brought  you  here  to  assure  himself 
that  he  was  not  breaking  any  law  of  the  Sirkar,  whose 
salt  he  ate  many  years  ago.  He  worships  the  dust  off 
the  feet  of  the  seal-cutter,  and  that  cow-devourer  has  for- 
bidden him  to  go  and  see  his  son.  What  does  Suddhoo 
know  of  your  laws  or  the  lightning-post?  I  have  to  watch 
his  money  going  day  by  day  to  that  lying  beast  below.' 


1S6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Janoo  stamped  her  foot  on  the  floor  and  nearly  cried 
with  vexation;  while  Suddhoo  was  whimpering  under  a 
blanket  in  the  corner,  and  Azizun  was  trying  to  guide 
the  pipe-stem  to  his  fooUsh  old  mouth. 


Now,  the  case  stands  thus.  Unthinkingly,  I  have 
laid  myself  open  to  the  charge  of  aiding  and  abetting 
the  seal-cutter  in  obtaining  money  under  false  pre- 
tences, which  is  forbidden  by  Section  420  of  the  Indian 
Penal  Code.  I  am  helpless  in  the  matter  for  these  rea- 
sons. I  cannot  inform  the  PoHce.  What  witnesses 
would  support  my  statements?  Janoo  refuses  flatly, 
and  Azizun  is  a  veiled  woman  somewhere  near  Bareilly— 
lost  in  this  big  India  of  ours.  I  dare  not  again  take  ths 
law  into  my  own  hands,  and  speak  to  the  seal-cutter;  for 
certain  am  I  that,  not  only  would  Suddhoo  disbeheve 
me,  but  this  step  would  end  in  the  poisoning  of  Janoo, 
who  is  bound  hand  and  foot  by  her  debt  to  the  bunnia. 
Suddhoo  is  an  old  dotard;  and  whenever  we  meet  mum- 
bles my  idiotic  joke  that  the  Sirkar  rather  patronises 
the  Black  Art  than  otherwise.  His  son  is  well  now;  but 
Suddhoo  is  completely  under  the  influence  of  the  seal- 
cutter,  by  whose  advice  he  regulates  the  aflairs  of  his  Ufe. 
Janoo  watches  daily  the  money  that  she  hoped  to 
wheedle  out  of  Suddhoo  taken  by  the  seal-cutter,  and 
becomes  daily  more  furious  and  sullen. 

She  will  never  tell,  because  she  dare  not,  but,  unless 
something  happens  to  prevent  her,  I  am  afraid  that  the 
seal-cutter  will  die  of  cholera — the  white  arsenic  kind — 
about  the  middle  of  May.  And  thus  I  shall  be  privy  to 
a  murder  in  the  House  of  Suddhoo. 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE 

Cry  'Murder!'  in  the  market-place,  and  each 

Will  turn  upon  his  neighbour  anxious  eyes 

That  ask — 'Art  thou  the  man?'    We  hunted  Cain 

Some  centuries  ago,  across  the  world. 

That  bred  the  fear  our  own  misdeeds  maintain 

To-day. 

— ViharVs  Moralities. 

Shakespeare  says  something  about  worms,  or  it  may 
be  giants  or  beetles,  turning  if  you  tread  on  them  too 
severely.  The  safest  plan  is  never  to  tread  on  a  worm 
— not  even  on  the  last  new  subaltern  from  Home  J  with: 
his4)uttons- hardly  out-oLtheir  tissue-rpapeivand  tke-red 
of-sappy"€n§Usb-boof  in-hi-s^xfaeeks.  This  is  a  story  of 
the  worm  that  turned.  For  the  sake  of  brevity,  we  will 
call  Henry  Augustus  Ramsay  Faizanne,  ^The  Worm,' 
though  he  really  was  an  exceedingly  pretty  boy,  without 
a  hair  on  his  face,  and  with  a  waist  like  a  girl's,  when  he 
came  out  to  the  Second  'Shikarris'  and  was  made  un- 
happy in  several  ways.  The  'Shikarris'  are  a  high-caste 
regiment,  and  you  must  be  able  to  do  things  well — ^play 
a  banjo,  or  ride  more  than  little,  or  sing,  or  act — to  get 
on  with  them. 

The  Worm  did  nothing  but  fall  off  his  pony  and  knock 
chips  out  of  gate-posts  with  his  trap.  EVen  that  became 
monotonous  afterrrtime.  He  objected  to  whist,  cut  the 
cloth  at  billiards,  sang  out  of  tune,  kept  very  much  to 

IS7 


rs8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

himself,  and  wrote  to  his  Mamma  and  sisters  at  Home. 
Four  of  these  five  things  were  vices  which  the  *Shikarris' 
objected  to  and  set  themselves  to  eradicate.  .Everjrone 
knows  how^sybal±£rns__are,  by  brother  subalterns,  soft- 
ened and  not  permitted  to  be  ferocious.  It  is  good  and 
wholesom-e,-  and-  doesujoo-jcuie  -any -harm,  unlcs^T^In^ers 
are  lost;  and  then  there  is  trouble.  There  was  a  man 
once — 

The  ^Shikarris'  shikarred  The  Worm  very  much, 
and  he  bore  everything  without  winking.  He  was  so 
good  and  so  anxious  to  learn,  and  flushed  so  pink,  that 
his  education  was  cut  short,  and  he  was  left  to  his  own 
devices  by  every  one  except  the  Senior  Subaltern,  who 
continued  to  make  Hfe  a  burden  to  The  Worm.  The 
Senior  Subaltern  meant  no  harm;  but  his  chaffy  was 

coarse  P>tTnf4-^t4»,jdirlr)'t   qm'te   ur>rlprqia.TKl  vfheve   tO   Stop. 

He  had  been  waiting  too  long  for  his  Company;  and 
that  always  sours  a  man.  Also  he  was  in  love,  which 
made  him  worse. 

One  day,  after  he  had  borrowed  The  Worm's  trap  for 
a  lady  who  never  existed,  had  used  it  himself  all  the 
afternoon,  had  sent  a  note  to  The  Worm,  purporting 
to  come  from  the  lady,  and  was  telHng  the  Mess  all 
about  it.  The  Worm  rose  in  his  place  and  said,  in  his 
'quietj_lady-like  jvoice — 'That  was  a  very  pretty  sell; 
but  I'll  lay  you  a  month's  pay  to  a  month's  pay  when 
you  get  your  step,  that  I  work  a  sell  on  you  that  you'll 
remember  for  the  rest  of  your  days,  and  the  Regiment 
after  you  when  you're  dead  or  broke.'  The  Worm 
wasn't  angry  in  the  least,  and  the  rest  of  the  Mess 
shouted.  Then  the  Senior  Subaltern  looked  at  The 
Worm  from  the  boots  upwards,  and  down  again,  and 


fflS  WEDDED  WIFE  159 

said—' Done,  Baby.'  The  Worm  held  the  rest  of  the 
Mess  to  witness  that  the  bet  had  been  taken,  and  retired 
into  a  book  with  a  sweet  smile. 

Two  months  passed,  and  the  Senior  Subaltern  still 
educated  The  Worm,  Who^beg^n  to-jaeve-abe^it-a4k-tle 
tfnore-a-s-tbe- hot  weather  came  on.  I  have  said  that 
the  Senior  Subaltern  was  in  love.  The  curious  thing 
is  that  a  girl  was  in  love  with  the  Senior  Subaltern. 
Though  the  Colonel  said  awful  things,  and  the  Majors 
snorted,  and  the  married  Captains  looked  unutterable 
wisdom,  an4-feho-J4Hiiors  scoffed,  those  two  were  engaged. 

The  Senior  Subaltern  was  so  pleased  with  getting 
his  Company  and  his  acceptance  at  the  same  time  that 
he  forgot  to  bother  The  Worm.  The  girl  was  a  pretty 
girl,  and  had  money  of  her  own.  She  does  not  come 
into  this  story  at  all. 

One  night,  at  the  beginning  of  the  hot  weather,  all 
the  Mess,  except  The  Worm  who  had  gone  to  his  own 
room  to  write  Home  letters,  were  sitting  on  the  plat- 
form outside  the  Mess  House.  The-Band-had  -fini^ed 
playing,,  but  TiQ-rmp  wanted  to  pro-in.  And  the  Cap- 
tains' wives  were  there  also.  The  folly  of  a  man  in 
love  is  unlimited.  The  Senior  Subaltern  had  been 
holding  forth  on  the  merits  of  the  girl  he  was  engaged 
to,  and  the  ladies  were  purring  approval  while  the  men 
yawned,  when  there  was  a  rustle  of  skirts  in  the  dark, 
and  a  tired,  faint  voice  Hfted  itself. 

^Where's  my  husband?' 

I  do  not  wish  in  the  least  to  reflect  on  the  morality 
of  the  'Shikarris';  but  it  is  on  record  that  four  men 
jumped  up  as  if  they  had  been  shot.  Thr^e  of  them 
wefe^laarried-ffie^h— P^rhaDS^  they  were  afraid  that 


i6o  PLMN  TALES  FROM  THE  HlLLS 


TTieir  wives  had 'coi!ir~frDT!rTIome  unbeknownst.  The 
ftttixh.  said  that  he  had^"acfed~oirihe"impuIse~bf  the 
n^oiaeftt: — He-eAplaiiied  IhisTcfterwards. 

Then  the  voice  cried,  '0  Lionel!'  Lionel  was  the 
Senior  Subaltern's  name.  A  woman  came  into  the  little 
circle  of  light  by  the  candles  on  the  peg-tables,  stretching 
out  her  hands  to  the  dark  where  the  Senior  Subaltern  was, 
and  sobbing.  We  rose  to  our  feet,  feeling  that  things 
were  going  to  happen  and  ready  to  believe  the  v/orst. 
^n.thiG  bad7-sma4Lworld-jo£--oufSr-^fl:^kiTaw5~5Q'  littte~uf 

tjxeJif-r  nf  thrv^iieyt  TTieT]33Khi£lv.^teF^,-4s  entirely  his 

owft-concern — 4har  onQ-io  not  guipfSeS^hen  a  crash 
comes.  Anythingmigh^-^UKar-ufi-aayi  day  for  an3r-Qft€. 
Perhaps  the  Senior  Subaltern  had  been  trapped  in  his 
youth.  Men  are  crippled  that  way  occasionally.  We  . 
didn't  know;  we  wanted  to  hear;  aa^4-4he  -Captaias^ 
wives  were  a»-aRxious  as,.we.  If  he  had  been  trapped,  he 
was  to  be  excused;  for  the  woman  from  nowhere,  in 
the  dusty  shoes  and  gray  travelling-dress,  was  very 
lovely,  with  black  hair  and  great  eyes  full  of  tears.  Sbtf^ 
was  tall,  with  a  £LiTrfigufe7"and  her  voice  had-arrmiging 
sobinrit-fjitifnttTrfeear.  As  soon  as  the  Senior  Subaltern 
stood  up,  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
called  him  ^my  darling,'  and  said  she  could  not  bear 
waiting  alone  in  England,  and  his  letters  were  so  short 
and  cold,  and  she  was  his  to  the  end  of  the  world,  jind 
would  he  forgive  her?  This  did  uGt  sound  quite  like  a 
lady'^-way-ef-speaking.     It^aLaS-too-^^niuiltlitraliVe. 

Things  seemed  black  indeed,  and  the  Captains'  wives 
peered  under  their  eyebrows  at  the  Senior  Subaltern,  and^ 
tha-Colond's  face-set-like  tha-Day  of  JudgmeoHrafllgd 
in  gray  bristles,  and  no  one  opokc  for  a  while. 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE  i6t 

Next  the  Colonel  said,  very  shortly,  'Well,  Sir?' 
and  the  woman  sobbed  afresh.  The  Senior  Subaltern 
was  half  choked  with  the  arms  round  his  neck,  but  he 
gasped  out — 'It's  a  darned  He!  I  never  had  a  wife  in 
my  life!' — 'Don't  swear,'  said— the~ Coloftel^  'Come 
into  the  Mess.  We  must  sift  this  clear  somehow,* 
and  he  sighed  to  himself,  for  he  beheved  in  his  'Shi- 
karris,'  did  the  Colonel. 

We  trooped  into  the  ante-room,  under  the  full  lights, 
and  there  we  saw  how  beautiful  the  woman  was.  She 
stood  up  in  the  middle  of  us  all,  sometimes  choking 
with  crying,  then  hard  and  proud,  and  then  holding 
out  her  arms  to  the  Senior  Subaltern.  '*t-was4&e-the 
^nrth  ^^^  ^^  ^  trn^^rly  She  told  us  how  the  Senior 
Subaltern  had  married  her  when  he  was  Home  on  leave 
eighteen  months  before;  aQ4-^hQ_-seeiii!cd-^te-kn^w=°ftll 
that  we  ■kfl:ew-,-aBd-jaor€-4Qa,-jo£4ik--peepk~aa4-his-y 
•4ifc:  He  was  white  and  ashy-gray,  trying  now  and 
again  to  break  into  the  torrent  of  her  words;  and  we, 
noting  how  lovely  she  was  and  what  a  criminal  he  looked, 
esteemed  him  a  beast  of  the  worst  kind.  We~fdt-sea;y 
foTinmpfehQUgli, 

I  shall  never  forget  the  indictment  of  the  Senior 
Subaltern  by  his  wife.  Nor  will  he.  It  was  so  sud- 
den, rushing  eiXL^d-  the  dark,  unannounced,  into  our 
dull  lives.  The  Captains'  wives  stood  back;  but  their 
eyes  were  alight,  and  you  could  see  that  they  had  al- 
ready convicted  and  sentenced  the  Senior  Subaltern. 
The  Colonel  seemed  five  years  older,  (kie  ^MajerT^nas 
sbadjfigjaifr-eyes  with-hip  hand  nnd  ^vatcliing  the  woman 
^froiSLJinderiiealli  it.  Another  was  ehewifig-hisr-inotls^^ 
tache  andjmiling  quietly  as  if  he  were,  witnessing^arplay. 


i62  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

iMUm^he  open  space  4flr-^b€-.€^»tf€rb3Hiie  whlsL  la-bles, 
tbe-StmiSr  SubdtojjIsLJ^mer-  was  himtmg-4eg-<^as. 
I  remember  all  this  as  clearly  as  though  a  photograph 
were  in  my  hand.  I  remember  the  look  of  horror  on  the 
Senior  Subaltern's  face.  •  It  was  rather  like  seeing  a  man 
hanged;  but  much  more  interesting.  Finally,  the 
woman  wound  up  by  saying  that  the  Senior  Subaltern 
carried  a  double  F.  M.  in  tattoo  on  his  left  shoulder.  We 
all  knew  that,  and  to  our  innocent  minds  it  ^emed  to 
clinch  the  matter.  But  one  of  the  bachelor  Majors  said 
very  politely,  'I  presume  that  your  marriage-certificate 
would  be  more  to  the  purpose? ' 

That  roused  the  woman.  She  s,tood  up  and  sneered 
at  the  Senior  Subaltern  for  a  cur,  and  abused  the  Majoi 
and  the  Colonel  and  all  the  rest.  Then  she  wept, 
and  then  she  pulled  a  paper  from  her  breast,  say- 
ing imperially,  'Take  that!  And  let  my  husband— 
my  lawfully  wedded  husband — read  it  aloud — if  he 
dare!' 

There  was  a  hush,  and  the  men  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  as  the  Senior  Subaltern  came  forward  in  a 
dazed  and  dizzjj^^^way,  and  took  the  paper.  W^^:^f^e 
TVondernTg7^a:5:~we-5tared,  whether  thertr  waa-aa^dilia^ 
against  uny^one  of-us  that  might  turiuiip  later  oik_  The 
Senior  SubalternJs  throat  was  dry;  but,  as  he  ran  his  eye 
over  the  paper,  he  broke  out  into  a  hoarse  cackle  of  re- 
lief, and  said  to  the  woman,  'You  young  blackguard!' 
But  the  woman  had  fled  through  a  door,  and  on  the 
paper  was  written,  'This  is  to  certify  that  I,  The  Worm. 
have  paid  in  full  my  debts  to  the  Senior  Subaltern,- and, 
further,  that  the  Senior  Subaltern  is  my  debtor,  by  agree  ■ 
ment  on  the  23d  of  February,  as  by  the  Mess  attested,  to 


fflS  WEDDED  WIFE  163 

the  extent  of  one  month's  Captain's  pay,  in  the  lawful 
currency  of  the  Indian  Empire.'"/ 

Then  a  deputation  set  off  for  The  Worm's  quarters  and 
found  him,  betwixt  and  between,  unlacing  his  stays,  with 
the  hat,  wig,  and  serge  dress,  on  the  bed.  He  came  over  as 
he  was,  and  the  *  Shikarris '  shouted  till  the  Gunners'  Mess 
sent  over  to  know  if  they  might  have  a  share  of  the  fun.  I 
think  we  were  all,  except  the  Colonel  and  the  Senior  Sub- 
altern, a  little  disappointed  that  the  scandal  had  come  to 
nothing.  But  that  is  human  nature.  There  could  be  no 
two  words  about  The  Worm's  acting.  It  leaned  as  near 
to  a  nasty  tragedy  as  anything  this  side  of  a  joke  can. 
When  most  of  the  Subalterns  sat  upon  him  with  sofa- 
cushions  to  find  out  why  he  had  not  said  that  acting  was 
his  strong  point,  he  answered  very  quietly,  '  I  don't  think 
you  ever  asked  me.  I  used  to  act  at  Home  with  my 
sisters.'  But  no  acting  with  girls  could  account  for  The 
Worm's  display  that  night.  Personally,  I  think  it  was  in 
bad  taste.  Besides  being  dangerous.  There  is  no  sort  of 
use  in  playing  with  fire,  even  for  fun. 

The  '  Shikarris '  made  him  President  of  the  Regimental 
Dramatic  Club;  and,  when  the  Senior  Subaltern  paid  up 
his  debt,  which  he  did  at  once.  The  Worm  sank  the  money 
in  scenery  and  dresses.  He  was  a  good  Worm;  and  the 
*  Shikarris '  are  proud  of  him.  The  only  drawback  is  that 
he  has  been  christened  'Mrs.  Senior  Subaltern';  and,  as 
there  are  now  two  Mrs.  Senior  Subalterns  in  the  Station, 
this  is  sometimes  confusing  to  strangers. 

Later  on,  I  will  tell  you  of  a  case  something  like  this,  but 
with  aU  the  jest  left  out  and  nothing  in  it  but  real  trouble. 


THE  BROKEN-LINK  HANDICAP 

While  the  snaffle  holds,  or  the  long-neck  stings, 
While  the  big  beam  tilts,  or  the  last  bell  rings, 
While  horses  are  horses  to  train  and  to  race, 
Then  women  and  wine  take  a  second  place 

For  me — for  me — 

While  a  short  *  ten- three  * 
Has  a  field  to  squander  or  fence  to  face! 

— Song  of  the  G.  R. 

There  are  more  ways  of  running  a  horse  to  suit  your  book 
than  pulling  his  head  off  in  the  straight.  Some  men  for- 
get this.  Understand  clearly  that  all  racing  is  rotten — as 
everything  connected  with  losing  money  must  be.  In 
India,  in  addition  to  its  inherent  rottenness,  it  has  the 
merit  of  being  two-thirds  sham;  looking  pretty  on  paper 
only.  Every  one  knows  every  one  else  far  too  well  for 
business  purposes.  How  on  earth  can  you  rack  and  harry 
and  post  a  man  for  his  losings,  when  you  are  fond  of  his 
wife,  and  live  in  the  same  Station  with  him?  He  says, 
*  On  the  Monday  following,' '  I  can't  settle  just  yet.'  You 
say,  'All  right,  old  man,'  and  think  yourself  lucky  if  you 
pull  off  nine  hundred  out  of  a  two-thousand-rupee  debt. 
Any  way  you  look  at  it,  Indian  racing  is  immoral,  and  ex- 
pensively immoral.  Which  is  much  worse.  If  a  man 
wants  your  money,  he  ought  to  ask  for  it,  or  send  round  a 
subscription-list,  instead  of  juggling  about  the  country, 
with  an  Australian  larrikin;  a  'brumby,'  with  as  much 

164 


THE  BROKEN-LINK  HANDICAP  165 

breed  as  the  boy;  a  brace  of  chumars  in  gold-laced  caps; 
three  or  four  ekka-pomes  with  hogged  manes,  and  a 
switch-tailed  demirep  of  a  mare  called  Arab  because  she 
has  a  kink  in  her  flag.  Racing  leads  to  the  shroff  quicker 
than  anything  else.  But  if  you  have  no  conscience  and 
no  sentiments,  and  good  hands,  and  some  knowledge  of 
pace,  and  ten  years'  experience  of  horses,  and  several 
thousand  rupees  a  month,  I  beUeve  that  you  can  occasion- 
ally contrive  to  pay  your  shoeing-bills. 

Did  you  ever  know  Shackles — b.  w.  g.,  15.  if — coarse, 
loose,  mule-like  ears — barrel  as  long  as  a  gate-post — tough 
as  a  telegraph-wire — and  the  queerest  brute  that  ever 
looked  through  a  bridle?  He  was  of  no  brand,  being  one 
of  an  ear-nicked  mob  taken  into  the  Bucephalus  at  £4:ios. 
a  head  to  make  up  freight,  and  sold  raw  and  out  of  con- 
dition at  Calcutta  for  Rs.  275.  People  who  lost  money 
on  him.  called  him  a  'brumby, '  but  if  ever  any  horse  had 
Harpoon's  shoulders  and  The  Gin's  temper,  Shackles  was 
that  horse.  Two  miles  was  his  own  particular  distance. 
He  trained  himself,  ran  himself,  and  rode  himself;  and,  if 
his  jockey  insulted  him  by  giving  him  hints,  he  shut  up  at 
once  and  bucked  the  boy  off.  He  objected  to  dictation. 
Two  or  three  of  his  owners  did  not  understand  this,  and 
lost  money  in  consequence.  At  last  he  was  bought  by  a 
man  who  discovered  that,  if  a  race  was  to  be  won, 
Shackles,  and  Shackles  only,  would  win  it  in  his  own  way, 
so  long  as  his  jockey  sat  still.  This  man  had  a  riding-boy 
called  Brunt — a  lad  from  Perth,  West  AustraHa — and  he 
taught  Brunt,  with  a  trainer's  whip,  the  hardest  thing  a 
jock  can  learn — to  sit  still,  to  sit  still,  and  to  keep  on 
sitting  still.  When  Brimt  fairly  grasped  this  truth, 
Shackles  devastated  the  country.    No  weight  could  stop 


:^J  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

iiim  at  his  own  distance;  and  the  fame  of  Shackles  spread 
trom  Ajmir  in  the  South,  to  Chedputter  in  the  North. 
There  was  no  horse  like  Shackles,  so  long  as  he  was  allowed 
to  do  his  work  in  his  own  way.  But  he  was  beaten  in  the 
end;  and  the  story  of  his  fall  is  enough  to  make  angels 
weep. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  Chedputter  race-course,  just 
before  the  turn  into  the  straight,  the  track  passes  close  to 
a  couple  of  old  brick-mounds  enclosing  a  funnel-shaped 
hollow.  The  big  end  of  the  funnel  is  not  six  feet  from  the 
railings  on  the  off-side.  The  astounding  peculiarity  of 
the  course  is  that,  if  you  stand  at  one  particular  place, 
about  haK  a  mile  away,  inside  the  course,  and  speak  at 
ordinary  pitch,  your  voice  just  hits  the  funnel  of  the 
brick-mounds  and  makes  a  curious  whining  echo  there.  A 
man  discovered  this  one  morning  by  accident  while  out 
training  with  a  friend.  He  marked  the  place  to  stand  and 
speak  from  with  a  couple  of  bricks,  and  he  kept  his  knowl- 
edge to  himself.  Every  peculiarity  of  a  course  is  worth  re- 
membering in  a  country  where  rats  play  the  mischief  with 
the  elephant-litter,  and  Stewards  build  jumps  to  suit 
their  own  stables.  This  man  ran  a  very  fairish  country- 
bred,  a  long,  racking  high  mare  with  the  temper  of  a  fiend, 
and  the  paces  of  an  airy  wandering  seraph — a  drifty, 
glidy  stretch.  The  mare  was,  as  a  delicate  tribute  to 
Mrs.  Reiver,  called  'The  Lady  Regula  Baddun'— or,  for 
short,  Regula  Baddun. 

Shackles'  jockey.  Brunt,  was  a  quite  well-behaved  boy, 
but  his  nerve  had  been  shaken.  He  began  his  career  by 
riding  jump-races  in  Melbourne,  where  a  few  Stewards 
want  lynching,  and  was  one  of  the  jockeys  who  came 
through  the  awful  butchery— perhaps  you  will  recollect  it 


THE  BROKEN-LINK  HANDICAP  '  167 

— of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate.  The  walls  were  colonial 
ramparts — logs  of  jarrah  spiked  into  masonry — with 
wings  as  strong  as  Church  buttresses.  Once  in  his  stride, 
a  horse  had  to  jump  or  fall.  He  couldn't  run  out.  In  the 
Maribyrnong  Plate,  twelve  horses  were  jammed  at  the 
second  wall.  Red  Hat,  leading,  fell  this  side,  and  threw 
out  The  Gled,  and  the  ruck  came  up  behind  and  the  space 
between  wing  and  wing  was  one  struggling,  screaming, 
kicking  shambles.  Four  jockeys  were  taken  out  dead; 
three  were  very  badly  hurt,  and  Brunt  was  among  the 
three.  He  told  the  story  of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate 
sometimes;  and  when  he  described  how  WTialley  on  Red 
Hat  said,  as  the  mare  fell  under  him — '  God  ha'  mercy, 
I'm  done  for!'  and  how,  next  instant,  Si  thee  There  and 
White  Otter  had  crushed  the  life  out  of  poor  Whalley, 
and  the  dust  hid  a  small  hell  of  men  and  horses,  no  one 
marvelled  that  Brunt  had  dropped  jump-races  and 
Australia  together.  Regula  Baddun's  owner  knew  that 
story  by  heart.  Brunt  never  varied  it  in  the  teUing.  He 
had  no  education. 

Shackles  came  to  the  Chedputter  Autumn  races  one 
year,  and  his  owner  walked  about  insulting  the  sportsmen 
of  Chedputter  generally,  till  they  went  to  the  Honorary 
Secretary  in  a  body  and  said,  'Appoint  handicappers,  and 
arrange  a  race  which  shall  break  Shackles  and  humble  the 
pride  of  his  owner.'  The  Districts  rose  against  Shackles 
and  sent  up  of  their  best:  Ousel,  who  was  supposed  to  be 
able  to  do  his  mile  in  1-53 ;  Petard,  the  stud-bred,  trained 
by  a  cavalry  regiment  who  knew  how  to  train;  Gringalet, 
the  ewe-lamb  of  the  75th;  Bobolink,  the  pride  of  Pesha- 
war; and  many  others. 

They  called  that  race  the  Broken-Link  Handicap,  be- 


i68  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

cause  it  was  to  smash  Shackles;  and  the  Handicappers 
piled  on  the  weights,  and  the  Fund  gave  eight  hundred 
rupees,  and  the  distance  was  'round  the  course  for  all 
horses.'  Shackles'  owner  said,  'You  can  arrange  the  race 
with  regard  to  Shackles  only.  So  long  as  you  don't  bury 
him  under  weight-cloths,  I  don't  mind.'  Regula  Bad- 
dun's  owner  said,  '  I  throw  in  my  mare  to  fret  Ousel.  Six 
furlongs  is  Regula 's  distance,  and  she  will  then  He  down 
and  die.  So  also  will  Ousel,  for  his  jockey  doesn't  under- 
stand a  waiting  race.'  Now,  this  was  a  lie,  for  Regula 
had  been  in  work  for  two  months  at  Dehra,  and  her 
chances  were  good,  always  supposing  that  Shackles  broke 
a  blood-vessel — or  Brunt  moved  on  him. 

The  plunging  in  the  lotteries  was  fine.  They  filled 
eight  thousand-rupee  lotteries  on  the  Broken-Link  Handi- 
cap, and  the  account  in  the  Pioneer  said  that  'favouritism 
was  divided.'  In  plain  English,  the  various  contingents 
were  wild  on  their  respective  horses;  for  the  Handi- 
cappers had  done  their  work  well.  The  Honorary  Secre- 
tary shouted  himself  hoarse  through  the  din;  and  the 
smoke  of  the  cheroots  was  like  the  smoke,  and  the  rattling 
of  the  dice-boxes  like  the  rattle  of  small-arm  fire. 

Ten  horses  started — very  level — and  Regula  Baddun's 
owner  cantered  out  on  his  hack  to  a  place  inside  the 
circle  of  the  course,  where  two  bricks  had  been  thrown. 
He  faced  towards  the  brick-mounds  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  course  and  waited. 

The  story  of  the  running  is  in  the  Pioneer.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  mile.  Shackles  crept  out  of  the  ruck,  well  on  the 
outside,  ready  to  get  round  the  turn,  lay  hold  of  the  bit 
and  spin  up  the  straight  before  the  others  knew  he  had 
got  away.  Brunt  was  sitting  still,  perfectly  happy,  listen- 


THE  BROKEN-LINK  HANDICAP  169 

ing  to  the  Mrum-drum-drum '  of  the  hoofs  behind,  and 
knowing  that,  in  about  twenty  strides.  Shackles  would 
draw  one  deep  breath  and  go  up  the  last  half-mile  like  the 
*  Flying  Dutchman.'  As  Shackles  went  short  to  take  the 
turn,  and  came  abreast  of  the  brick-mound.  Brunt  heard, 
above  the  noise  of  the  wind  in  his  ears,  a  whining, 
waiUng  voice  on  the  off-side,  saying — '  God  ha'  mercy,  I'm 
done  for!'  In  one  stride.  Brunt  saw  the  whole  seething 
smash  of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate  before  him,  started  in 
his  saddle  and  gave  a  yell  of  terror.  The  start  brought 
the  heels  into  Shackles'  side,  and  the  scream  hurt 
Shackles'  feelings.  He  couldn't  stop  dead;  but  he  put 
out  his  feet  and  slid  along  for  fifty  yards,  and  then,  very 
gravely  and  judicially,  bucked  off  Brunt — a  shaking, 
terror-stricken  lump,  while  Regula  Baddun  made  a  neck- 
and-neck  race  with  BoboHnk  up  the  straight,  and  won  by 
a  short  head — Petard  a  bad  third.  Shackles'  owner,  in  the 
Stand,  tried  to  think  that  his  field-glasses  had  gone  wrong. 
Regula  Baddun's  owner,  waiting  by  the  two  bricks,  gave 
one  deep  sigh  of  relief,  and  cantered  back  to  the  Stand. 
He  had  won,  in  lotteries  and  bets,  about  fifteen  thousand. 
It  was  a  Broken-Link  Handicap  with  a  vengeance.  It 
broke  nearly  all  the  men  concerned,  and  nearly  broke  the 
heart  of  Shackles'  owner.  He  went  down  to  interview 
Brunt.  The  boy  lay,  Hvid  and  gasping  with  fright,  where 
he  had  tumbled  off.  The  sin  of  losing  the  race  never 
seemed  to  strike  him.  All  he  knew  was  that  Whalley  had 
'called'  him,  that  the  'call'  was  a  warning;  and,  were  he 
cut  in  two  for  it,  he  would  never  get  up  again.  His  nerve 
had  gone  altogether,  and  he  only  asked  his  master  to  give 
him  a  good  thrashing,  and  let  him  go.  He  was  fit  for 
nothing,  he  said.    He  got  his  dismissal,  and  crept  up  to 


I70  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

the  paddock,  white  as  chalk,  with  blue  lips,  his  knees  giv- 
'ng  way  under  him.  People  said  nasty  things  in  the  pad- 
dock; but  Brunt  never  heeded.  He  changed  into  tweeds, 
took  his  stick  and  went  down  the  road,  still  shaking  with 
fright,  and  muttering  over  and  over  again — 'God  ha' 
mercy,  I'm  done  for ! '  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and 
belief  he  spoke  the  truth. 

So  now  you  know  how  the  Broken-Link  Handicap 
was  run  and  won.  Of  course  you  don't  believe  it. 
You  would  credit  anything  about  Russia's  designs  on 
India,  or  the  recommendations  of  the  Currency  Com- 
mission; but  a  little  bit  of  sober  fact  is  more  than  you 
can  stand. 


BEYOND  THE  PALE 

Love  needs  not  caste  nor  sleep  a  broken  bed.  I  went  in  search  of  love 
and  lost  myself. — Hindu  Proverb, 

A  Man  should,  whatever  happens,  keep  to  his  own 
caste,  race  and  breed.  Let  the  White  go  to  the  White 
and  the  Black  to  the  Black.  Then,  whatever  trouble 
falls  is  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things — neither  sudden, 
aUen  nor  unexpected. 

This  is  the  story  of  a  man  who  wilfully  stepped  beyond 
the  safe  limits  of  decent  everyday  society,  and  paid  for 
it  heavily. 

He  knew  too  much  in  the  first  instance;  and  he  saw 
too  much  in  the  second.  He  took  too  deep  an  interest 
in  native  life;  but  he  will  never  do  so  again. 

Deep  away  in  the  heart  of  the  City,  behind  Jitha 
Megji's  bustee,  lies  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  which  ends  in  a 
dead-wall  pierced  by  one  grated  window.  At  the  head 
of  the  Gully  is  a  big  cowbyre,  and  the  walls  on  either 
side  of  the  Gully  are  without  windows.  Neither  Suchet 
Singh  nor  Gaur  Chand  approve  of  their  women-folk 
looking  into  the  world.  If  Durga  Charan  had  been  of 
their  opinion,  he  would  have  been  a  happier  man  to-day, 
and  little  Bisesa  would  have  been  able  to  knead  her 
own  bread.  Her  room  looked  out  through  the  grated 
window  into  the  narrow  dark  Gully  where  the  sun 
never  came  and  where  the  buffaloes  wallowed  in  the 

171 


172  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  filLLS 

blue  slime.  She  was  a  widow,  fifteen  years  old,  and  she 
prayed  the  Gods,  day  and  night,  to  send  her  a  lover;  for 
she  did  not  approve  of  Hving  alone. 

One  day,  the  man — Trejago  was  his  name — came 
into  Amir  Nath's  Gully  on  a  wandering;  and,  after  he 
had  passed  the  buffaloes,  stumbled  over  a  big  heap  of 
cattle-food. 

Then  he  saw  that  the  Gully  ended  in  a  trap,  and 
heard  a  little  laugh  from  behind  the  grated  window. 
It  was  a  pretty  Httle  laugh,  and  Trejago,  knowing  that, 
for  all  practical  purposes,  the  old  Arabian  Nights  are 
good  guides,  went  forward  to  the  window,  and  whispered 
that  verse  of  'The  Love  Song  of  Har  Dyal'  which  be- 
gins:— 

Can  a  man  stand  upright  in  the  face  of  the  naked  Sun;  or  a  Lover  in 
the  Presence  of  his  Beloved? 

If  my  feet  fail  me,  O  Heart  of  my  Heart,  am  I  to  blame,  being 
blinded  by  the  glimpse  of  your  beauty? 

There  came  the  faint  tchink  of  a  woman's  bracelets 
from  behind  the  grating,  and  a  little  voice  went  on  with 
the  song  at  the  fifth  verse : — 

Alas!  alas!  Can  the  Moon  tell  the  Lotus  of  her  love  when  the  Gate 
of  Heaven  is  shut  and  the  clouds  gather  for  the  rains? 

They  have  taken  my  Beloved,  and  driven  her  with  the  pack  horses  to 
the  North. 

There  are  iron  chains  on  the  feet  that  were  set  on  my  heart. 

Call  to  the  bowmen  to  make  ready 

The  voice  stopped  suddenly,  and  Trejago  walked 
out  of  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  wondering  who  in  the  world 
could  have  capped  'The  Love  Song  of  Har  Dyal'  so 
neatly. 


BEYOND  THE  PALE  173 

Next  morning,  as  he  was  driving  to  office,  an  old 
i\roman  threw  a  packet  into  his  dogcart.  In  the  packet 
was  the  half  of  a  broken  glass-bangle,  one  flower  of  the 
blood-red  dhak^  a  pinch  of  hhusa  or  cattle-food,  and 
eleven  cardamoms.  That  packet  was  a  letter — not  a 
clumsy  compromising  letter,  but  an  innocent  unintel- 
ligible lover's  epistle. 

Trejago  knew  far  too  much  about  these  things,  as  I 
have  said.  No  Englishman  should  be  able  to  translate 
object-letters.  But  Trejago  spread  all  the  trifles  on  the 
lid  of  his  office-box  and  began  to  puzzle  them  out. 

A  broken  glass-bangle  stands  for  a  Hindu  widow  all 
India  over;  because,  when  her  husband  dies,  a  woman's 
bracelets  are  broken  on  her  wrists.  Trejago  saw  the 
meaning  of  the  little  bit  of  the  glass.  The  flower  of 
the  dhak  means  diversely  'desire,'  'come,'  'write,'  or 
'danger,'  according  to  the  other  things  with  it.  One 
cardamom  means  'jealousy';  but  when  any  article  is 
dupHcated  in  an  object-letter,  it  loses  its  s)anbolic 
meaning  and  stands  merely  for  one  of  a  number  indi- 
cating time,  or,  if  incense,  curds,  or  saffron  be  sent  also, 
place.  The  message  ran  then — 'A  widow — dhak  flower 
and  hhusa, — at  eleven  o'clock.'  The  pinch  of  hhusa 
enhghtened  Trejago.  He  saw — this  kind  of  letter 
leaves  much  to  instinctive  knowledge — that  the  hhusa 
referred  to  the  big  heap  of  cattle-food  over  which 
he  had  fallen  in  Amir  Nath's  GuUy,  and  that  the  mes- 
sage must  come  from  the  person  behind  the  grating;  she 
being  a  widow.  So  the  message  ran  then — 'A  widow, 
in  the  Gully  in  which  is  the  heap  of  hhusa,  desires  you 
to  come  at  eleven  o'clock.' 

Trejago  threw  all  the  rubbish  into  the  fireplace  and 


174  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

laughed.  He  knew  that  men  in  the  East  do  not  make 
love  under  windows  at  eleven  in  the  forenoon,  nor  do 
women  fix  appointments  a  week  in  advance.  So  he 
went,  that  very  night  at  eleven,  into  Amir  Nath's 
Gully,  clad  in  a  boorka,  which  cloaks  a  man  as  well  as 
a  woman.  Directly  the  gongs  of  the  City  made  the 
hour,  the  little  voice  behind  the  grating  took  up  'The 
Love  Song  of  Har  Dyal'  at  the  verse  where  the  Pan- 
than  girl  calls  upon  Har  Dyal  to  return.  The  song  is 
really  pretty  in  the  Vernacular.  In  EngUsh  you  miss 
the  wail  of  it.     It  runs  something  like  this — 

Alone  upon  the  housetops,  to  the  North 
I  turn  and  watch  the  lightning  in  the  sky, — 

The  glamour  of  thy  footsteps  in  the  North, 
Come  back  to  me^  Beloved,  or  I  die! 

Below  my  feet  the  still  bazar  is  laid, 

Far,  far,  below  the  weary  camels  lie, — 
The  camels  and  the  captives  of  thy  raid. 

Come  back  to  me,  Beloved,  or  I  die! 

My  father's  wife  is  old  and  harsh  with  years, 
And  drudge  of  all  my  father's  house  am  I. — 

My  bread  is  sorrow  and  my  drink  is  tears, 
Come  back  to  me,  Beloved,  or  I  die! 

As  the  song  stopped,  Trejago  stepped  up  under  the 
grating  and  whispered — 'I  am  here.^ 

Bisesa  was  good  to  look  upon. 

That  night  was  the  beginning  of  many  strange  things, 
and  of  a  double  life  so  wild  that  Trejago  to-day  some- 
times wonders  if  it  were  not  all  a  dream.  Bisesa,  or 
her  old  handmaiden  who  had  thrown  the  object-letter, 


BEYOND  THE  PALE  175 

had  detached  the  heavy  grating  from  the  brick-work  of 
the  wall;  so  that  the  window  slid  inside,  leaving  only 
a  square  of  raw  masonry  into  which  an  active  man 
might  climb. 

In  the  day-time,  Trejago  drove  through  his  routine 
of  office-work,  or  put  on  his  calling-clothes  and  called 
on  the  ladies  of  the  Station;  wondering  how  long  they 
would  know  him  if  they  knew  of  poor  little  Bisesa. 
At  night,  when  all  the  City  was  still,  came  the  walk 
under  the  evil-smelling  boorka,  the  patrol  through  Jitha 
Megji's  bustee,  the  quick  turn  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully 
between  the  sleeping  cattle  and  the  dead  walls,  and 
then,  last  of  all,  Bisesa,  and  the  deep,  even  breathing 
of  the  old  woman  who  slept  outside  the  door  of  the 
bare  little  room  that  Durga  Charan  allotted  to  his 
sister's  daughter.  Who  or  what  Durga  Charan  was, 
Trejago  never  inquired;  and  why  in  the  world  he  was 
not  discovered  and  knifed  never  occurred  to  him  till 
his  madness  was  over,  and  Bisesa  .  .  .  But  this 
comes  later. 

Bisesa  was  an  endless  delight  to  Trejago.  She  was 
as  ignorant  as  a  bird;  and  her  distorted  versions  of  the 
rumours  from  the  outside  world  that  had  reached  her 
in  her  room,  amused  Trejago  almost  as  much  as  her 
lisping  attempts  to  pronounce  his  name — ^Christopher.' 
The  first  syllable  was  always  more  than  she  could  man- 
age, and  she  made  funny  little  gestures  with  her  rose- 
leaf  hands,  as  one  throwing  the  name  away,  and  then, 
kneeling  before  Trejago  asked  him,  exactly  as  an  Eng- 
lishwoman would  do,  if  he  were  sure  he  loved  her. 
Trejago  swore  that  he  loved  her  more  than  any  one  else 
m  the  world.    Which  was  true. 


176  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

After  a  month  of  this  folly,  the  exigencies  of  his 
other  life  compelled  Trejago  to  be  especially  attentive 
to  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance.  You  may  take  it  for  a 
fact  that  anything  of  this  kind  is  not  only  noticed  and 
discussed  by  a  man's  own  race  but  by  some  hundred 
and  fifty  natives  as  well.  Trejago  had  to  w^alk  with 
this  lady  and  talk  to  her  at  the  Band  stand,  and  once 
or  twice  to  drive  with  her;  never  for  an  instant  dream- 
ing that  this  would  affect  his  dearer,  out-of-the-way 
life.  But  the  news  flew,  in  the  usual  mysterious  fash- 
ion, from  mouth  to  mouth,  till  Bisesa's  duenna  heard 
of  it  and  told  Bisesa.  The  child  was  so  troubled  that 
she  did  the  household  work  evilly,  and  was  beaten  by 
Durga  Charan's  v/ife  in  consequence. 

A  week  later,  Bisesa  taxed  Trejago  with  the  flirta- 
tion. She  understood  no  gradations  and  spoke  openly. 
Trejago  laughed  and  Bisesa  stamped  her  little  feet — 
little  feet,  light  as  marigold  flowers,  that  could  lie  in 
the  palm  of  a  man's  one  hand. 

Much  that  is  written  about  Oriental  passion  and 
impulsiveness  is  exaggerated  and  compiled  at  second- 
hand, but  a  little  of  it  is  true;  and  when  an  EngUslmian 
finds  that  little,  it  is  quite  as  startling  as  any  passion 
in  his  own  proper  Hfe.  Bisesa  raged  and  stormed,  and 
finally  threatened  to  kill  herself  if  Trejago  did  not  at 
once  drop  the  alien  Memsahih  who  had  come  between 
them.  Trejago  tried  to  explain,  and  to  show  her  that 
she  did  not  understand  these  things  from  a  Western 
standpoint.     Bisesa  drew  herself  up,  and  said  simply — 

*I  do  not.  I  know  only  this — it  is  not  good  that 
I  should  have  made  you  dearer  than  my  own  heart  to 
me,  Sahib,    You  are  an  Englishman.    I  am  only  a 


BEYOND  THE  P.\LE  177 

black  girl' — she  was  fairer  than  bar-gold  in  the  Mint, 
— *and  the  widow  of  a  black  man.' 

Then  she  sobbed  and  said — 'But  on  my  soul  and 
my  Mother's  soul,  I  love  you.  There  shall  no  harm 
come  to  you,  whatever  happens  to  me.' 

Trejago  argued  with  the  child,  and  tried  to  soothe 
her,  but  she  seemed  quite  imreasonably  disturbed. 
Nothing  would  satisfy  her  save  that  all  relations  be- 
tween them  should  end.  He  was  to  go  away  at  once. 
And  he  went.  As  he  dropped  out  of  the  window, 
she  kissed  his  forehead  twice,  and  he  walked  home 
wondering. 

A  week,  and  then  three  weeks,  passed  without  a  sign 
from  Bisesa.  Trejago,  thinking  that  the  rupture  had 
lasted  quite  long  enough,  went  down  to  Amir  Nath's 
Gully  for  the  fifth  time  in  the  three  weeks,  hoping  that 
his  rap  at  the  sill  of  the  shifting  grating  would  be  an- 
swered.    He  was  not  disappointed. 

There  was  a  young  moon,  and  one  stream  of  light  fell 
down  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  and  struck  the  grating 
which  was  drawn  away  as  he  knocked.  From  the  black 
dark,  Bisesa  held  out  her  arms  into  the  moonlight. 
Both  hands  had  been  cut  off  at  the  wrists,  and  the 
stumps  were  nearly  healed. 

Then,  as  Bisesa  bowed  her  head  between  her  arms  and 
sobbed,  some  one  in  the  room  gnmted  like  a  wild  beast, 
and  something  sharp — knife,  sword,  or  spear — thrust  at 
Trejago  in  his  boorka.  The  stroke  missed  his  body,  but 
cut  into  one  of  the  muscles  of  the  groin,  and  he  limped 
slightly  from  the  wound  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

The  grating  slid  into  its  place.  There  was  no  sign 
whatever    from   inside   the    house, — nothing   but   the 


178  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

moonlight  strip  on  the  high  wall,  and  the  blackness  of 
Amir  Nath's  Gully  behind. 

The  next  thing  Trejago  remembers,  after  raging  and 
shouting  Hke  a  mad  man  between  those  pitiless  walls, 
is  that  he  found  himself  near  the  river  as  the  dawn 
was  breaking,  threw  away  his  boorka  and  went  home 
bareheaded. 


What  was  the  tragedy — whether  Bisesa  had,  in  a  fit  of 
causeless  despair,  told  everything,  or  the  intrigue  had 
been  discovered  and  she  tortured  to  tell;  whether  Durga 
Charan  knew  his  name  and  what  became  of  Bisesa — Tre- 
jago does  not  know  to  this  day.  Something  horrible  had 
happened,  and  the  thought  of  what  it  must  have  been, 
comes  upon  Trejago  in  the  night  now  and  again,  and 
keeps  him  company  till  the  morning.  One  special 
feature  of  the  case  is  that  he  does  not  know  where  Hes  the 
front  of  Durga  Charan's  house.  It  may  open  on  to  a 
courtyard  common  to  two  or  more  houses,  or  it  may  lie 
behind  any  one  of  the  gates  of  Jitha  Megji's  bustee.  Tre- 
jago cannot  tell.  He  cannot  get  Bisesa — poor  little 
Bisesa — back  again.  He  has  lost  her  in  the  City  where 
each  man's  house  is  as  guarded  and  as  unknowable  as  the 
grave;  and  the  grating  that  opens  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully 
has  been  walled  up. 

But  Trejago  pays  his  calls  regularly,  and  is  reckoned  a 
very  decent  sort  of  man. 

There  is  nothing  pecuHar  about  him,  except  a  slight 
stififness,  caused  by  a  riding-strain,  in  the  right  leg. 


IN  ERROR 

They  burnt  a  corpse  upon  the  sand — 

The  light  shone  out  afar; 
It  guided  home  the  plunging  boats 

That  beat  from  Zanzibar. 
Spirit  of  Fire,  where'er  Thy  altars  rise, 
Thou  art  Light  of  Guidance  to  our  eyes! 

— Salsette  Boat-Song. 

There  is  hope  for  a  man  who  gets  publicly  and  riotously 
drunk  more  often  than  he  ought  to  do;  but  there  is  no 
hope  for  the  man  who  drinks  secretly  and  alone  in  his  own 
house — that  man  who  is  never  seen  to  drinlc. 

This  is  a  rule;  so  there  must  be  an  exception  to  prove  it. 
Moriarty's  case  was  that  exception. 

He  was  a  Civil  Engineer,  and  the  Government,  very 
kindly,  put  him  quite  by  himself  in  an  out-district,  with 
nobody  but  natives  to  talk  to  and  a  great  deal  of  work  to 
do.  He  did  his  work  well  in  the  four  years  he  was  utterly 
alone;  but  he  picked  up  the  vice  of  secret  and  sohtary 
drinking,  and  came  up  out  of  the  wilderness  more  old  and 
worn  and  haggard  than  the  dead-alive  life  had  any  right 
to  make  him.  You  know  the  saying  that  a  man  who  has 
been  alone  in  the  jungle  for  more  than  a  year  is  never 
quite  sane  all  his  Kfe  after.  People  credited  Moriarty's 
queerness  of  manner  and  moody  ways  to  the  soHtude,  and 
said  that  it  showed  how  Government  spoilt  the  futures  of 
its  best  men.    Moriarty  had  built  himself  the  plinth  of  a 

179 


i8o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

very  good  reputation  in  the  bridge-dam-girder  line.  But 
he  knew,  every  night  of  the  week,  that  he  was  taking  steps 
to  undermine  that  reputation  with  L.  L.  L.  and  Chris- 
topher and  little  nips  of  liqueurs,  and  filth  of  that  kind. 
He  had  a  sound  constitution  and  a  great  brain,  or  else  he 
would  have  broken  down  and  died  Hke  a  sick  camel  in  the 
district.   As  better  men  have  done  before  him. 

Government  ordered  him  to  Simla  after  he  had  come 
out  of  the  desert;  and  he  went  up  meaning  to  try  for  a  post 
then  vacant.  That  season,  Mrs.  Reiver — perhaps  you 
will  remember  her — was  in  the  height  of  her  power,  and 
many  men  lay  tmder  her  yoke.  Everything  bad  that 
could  be  said  has  already  been  said  about  Mrs.  Reiver,  in 
mother  tale.  Moriarty  was  heavily  built  and  handsome, 
very  quiet  and  nervously  anxious  to  please  his  neighbours 
when  he  wasn't  sunk  in  a  brown  study.  He  started  a 
good  deal  at  sudden  noises  or  if  spoken  to  without  warn- 
ing; and,  when  you  watched  him  drinking  his  glass  of 
water  at  dinner,  you  could  see  the  hand  shake  a  httle. 
But  all  this  was  put  down  to  nervousness,  and  the  quiet, 
steady  sip-sip-sip,  fill  and  sip-sip-sip  again  that  went  on  in 
his  own  room  when  he  was  by  himself,  was  never  known. 
Which  was  miraculous,  seeing  how  everything  in  a  man's 
private  life  is  pubHc  property  in  India. 

Moriarty  was  drawn,  not  into  Mrs.  Reiver's  set,  be- 
cause they  were  not  his  sort,  but  into  the  power  of  Mrs. 
Reiver,  and  he  fell  down  in  front  of  her  and  made  a  god- 
dess of  her.  This  was  due  to  his  coming  fresh  out  of  the 
jungle  to  a  big  town.  He  could  not  scale  things  properly 
or  see  who  was  what. 

Because  Mrs.  Reiver  was  cold  and  hard,  he  said  she 
was  stately  and  dignified.    Because  she  had  no  brains, 


IN  ERROR  i8i 

and  could  not  talk  cleverly,  he  said  she  was  resented  and 
shy.  Mrs.  Reiver  shy!  Because  she  was  unworthy  of 
honour  or  reverence  from  any  one,  he  reverenced  her  from 
a  distance  and  dowered  her  with  all  the  virtues  in  the 
Bible  and  most  of  those  in  Shakespeare. 

This  big,  dark,  abstracted  man  who  was  so  nervous 
when  a  pony  cantered  behind  him,  used  to  moon  in  the 
train  of  Mrs.  Reiver,  blushing  with  pleasure  when  she 
threw  a  word  or  two  his  way.  His  admiration  was  strictly 
platonic;  even  other  women  saw  and  admitted  this.  He 
did  not  move  out  in  Simla,  so  he  heard  nothing  against 
his  idol:  which  was  satisfactory.  Mrs.  Reiver  took  no 
special  notice  of  him,  beyond  seeing  that  he  was  added  to 
her  list  of  admirers,  and  going  for  a  walk  with  him  now 
and  then,  just  to  show  that  he  was  her  property,  claim- 
able as  such.  Moriarty  must  have  done  most  of  the  talk- 
ing, for  Mrs.  Reiver  couldn't  talk  much  to  a  man  of  his 
stamp;  and  the  little  she  said  could  not  have  been  profit- 
able. What  Moriarty  believed  in,  as  he  had  good  reason 
to,  was  Mrs.  Reiver's  influence  over  him,  and,  in  that  be- 
Hef ,  set  himself  seriously  to  try  to  do  away  with  the  vice 
that  only  he  himself  knew  of. 

His  experiences  while  he  was  fighting  with  it  must  have 
been  pecuHar,  but  he  never  described  them.  Sometimes 
he  would  hold  off  from  everything  except  water  for  a 
week.  Then,  on  a  rainy  night,  when  no  one  had  asked 
him  out  to  dinner,  and  there  was  a  big  fire  in  his  room, 
and  everything  comfortable,  he  would  sit  down  and  make 
a  big  night  of  it  by  adding  little  nip  to  little  nip,  planning 
big  schemes  of  reformation  meanwhile,  until  he  threw 
himseh'  on  his  bed  hopelessly  drunk.  He  suffered  next 
morning. 


i82  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

One  night  the  big  crash  came.  He  was  troubled  in  ys 
own  mind  over  his  attempts  to  make  himself  Vorthy  of 
the  friendship'  of  Mrs.  Reiver.  The  past  ten  days  had 
been  very  bad  ones,  and  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  he  re- 
ceived the  arrears  of  two  and  three  quarter  years  of  sipping 
in  one  attack  of  delirium  tremens  of  the  subdued  kind ;  be- 
ginning with  suicidal  depression,  going  on  to  fits  and 
starts  and  hysteria,  and  ending  with  downright  raving. 
As  he  sat  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  or  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  picking  a  handkerchief  to  pieces,  you 
heard  what  poor  Moriarty  really  thought  of  Mrs.  Reiver, 
for  he  raved  about  her  and  his  own  fall  for  the  most  part; 
though  he  ravelled  some  P.  W.  D.  accounts  into  the  same 
skein  of  thought.  He  talked  and  talked  and  talked  in  a 
low  dry  whisper  to  himself,  and  there  was  no  stopping 
him.  He  seemed  to  know  that  there  was  something 
wrong,  and  twice  tried  to  pull  himself  together  and  con- 
fer rationally  with  the  Doctor;  but  his  mind  ran  out  of 
control  at  once,  and  he  fell  back  to  a  whisper  and  the  story 
of  his  troubles.  It  is  terrible  to  hear  a  big  man  babbling 
like  a  child  of  all  that  a  man  usually  locks  up,  and  puts 
away  in  the  deep  of  his  heart.  Moriarty  read  out  his 
very  soul  for  the  benefit  of  any  one  who  was  in  the  room 
between  ten-thirty  that  night  and  two-forty-five  next 
morning. 

From  what  he  said,  one  gathered  how  immense  an  in- 
fluence Mrs.  Reiver  held  over  him,  and  how  thoroughly 
he  felt  for  his  own  lapse.  His  whisperings  cannot,  of 
course,  be  put  down  here;  but  they  were  very  instructive 
— as  showing  the  errors  of  his  estimates. 


IN  ERROR  183 

When  the  trouble  was  over,  and  his  few  acquaintances 
were  pitying  him  for  the  bad  attack  of  jungle-fever  that 
had  so  pulled  him  down,  Moriarty  swore  a  big  oath  to 
himself  and  went  abroad  again  with  Mrs.  Reiver  till  the 
end  of  the  season,  adoring  her  in  a  quiet  and  deferential 
way  as  an  angel  from  heaven.  Later  on,  he  took  to 
riding — not  hacking,  but  honest  riding — which  was  good 
proof  that  he  was  improving,  and  you  could  slam  doors 
behind  him  without  his  jumping  to  his  feet  with  a  gasp. 
That,  again,  was  hopeful. 

How  he  kept  his  oath,  and  what  it  cost  him  in  the  be- 
ginning, nobody  knows.  He  certainly  managed  to  com- 
pass the  hardest  thing  that  a  man  who  has  drunk  heavily 
can  do.  He  took  his  peg  and  wine  at  dinner ;  but  he  never 
drank  alone,  and  never  let  what  he  drank  have  the  least 
hold  on  him. 

Once  he  told  a  bosom-friend  the  story  of  his  great 
trouble,  and  how  the  '  influence  of  a  pure  honest  woman, 
and  an  angel  as  v/ell,'  had  saved  him.  When  the  man — 
startled  at  anything  good  being  laid  to  Mrs.  Reiver's  door 
—laughed,  it  cost  him  Moriarty's  friendship.  Moriarty, 
who  is  married  now  to  a  woman  ten  thousand  times  better 
than  Mrs.  Reiver, — a  woman  who  beHeves  that  there  is 
no  man  on  earth  as  good  and  clever  as  her  husband, — will 
go  down  to  his  grave  vowing  and  protesting  that  Mrs. 
Reiver  saved  him  from  ruin  in  both  worlds. 

That  she  knew  anything  of  Moriarty's  weakness  no- 
body believed  for  a  moment.  That  she  would  have  cut 
him  dead,  thrown  him  over,  and  acquainted  all  her  friends 
with  her  discovery,  if  she  had  known  of  it,  nobody  who 
knew  her  doubted  for  an  instant. 

Moriarty  thought  her  something  she  never  was,  and  in 


i84  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

that  belief  saved  himself.    Which  was  just  as  good  as 
though  she  had  been  ever3rthing  that  he  had  imagined. 

But  the  question  is,  What  claim  will  Mrs.  Reiver  have 
to  the  credit  of  Moriarty's  salvation,  when  her  day  of 
reckoning  comes? 


A  BANK  FRAUD 

Hr  drank  strong  waters  and  his  speech  was  coarse 
He  purchased  raiment  and  forebore  to  pay; 

He  stuck  a  trusting  junior  with  a  horse, 
And  won  Gjinkhanas  in  a  doubtful  way. 

Then,  'twixt  a  vice  and  folly,  turned  aside 

To  do  good  deeds  and  straight  to  cloak  them,  lied. 

— The  Mess  Room. 

If  Reggie  Burke  were  in  India  now,  he  would  resent 
this  tale  being  told;  but  as  he  is  in  Hongkong  and  won't 
see  it,  the  telling  is  safe.  He  was  the  man  who  worked 
the  big  fraud  on  the  Sind  and  Sialkote  Bank.  He 
was  manager  of  an  up-country  Branch,  and  a  sound 
practical  man  with  a  large  experience  of  native  loan 
and  insurance  work.  He  could  combine  the  frivolities 
of  ordinary  Hfe  with  his  work,  and  yet  do  well.  Reggie 
Burke  rode  anything  that  would  let  him  get  up,  danced 
as  neatly  as  he  rode,  and  was  wanted  for  every  sort  of 
amusement  in  the  Station. 

As  he  said  himself,  and  as  many  men  found  out 
rather  to  their  surprise,  there  were  two  Burkes,  both 
very  much  at  your  service.  *  Reggie  Burke,'  between 
four  and  ten,  ready  for  anything  from  a  hot-weather 
gymkhana  to  a  riding-picnic,  and,  between  ten  and  four, 
'Mr.  Reginald  Burke,  Manager  of  the  Sind  and  Sialkote 
Branch  Bank.'  You  might  play  polo  with  him  one 
afternoon  and  hear  him  express  his  opinions  when  a 


i86  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

man  crossed;  and  you  might  call  on  him  next  morning 
to  raise  a  two-thousand-rupee  loan  on  a  five-hundred- 
pound  insurance  policy,  eighty  pounds  paid  in  premiums. 
He  would  recognise  you,  but  you  would  have  some 
trouble  in  recognising  him. 

The  Directors  of  the  Bank — it  had  its  headquarters 
in  Calcutta  and  its  General  Manager's  word  carried 
weight  with  the  Government — picked  their  men  well. 
They  had  tested  Reggie  up  to  a  fairly  severe  breaking- 
strain.  They  trusted  him  just  as  much  as  Directors 
ever  trust  Managers.  You  must  see  for  yourself  whether 
their  trust  was  misplaced. 

Reggie's  Branch  was  in  a  big  Station,  and  worked 
with  the  usual  staff — one  Manager,  one  Accountant, 
both  English,  a  Cashier  and  a  horde  of  native  clerks, 
besides  the  PoKce  patrol  at  nights  outside.  The  bulk 
of  its  work,  for  it  was  in  a  thriving  district,  was  hoondi 
and  accommodation  of  all  kinds.  A  fool  has  no  grip 
of  this  sort  of  business,  and  a  clever  man  who  does 
not  go  about  among  his  clients,  and  know  more  than  a 
little  of  their  affairs,  is  worse  than  a  fool.  'Reggie  was 
young-looking,  clean-shaved,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
and  a  head  that  nothing  short  of  a  gallon  of  the  Gun- 
ners' Madeira  could  make  any  impression  on. 

One  day,  at  a  big  dinner,  he  announced  casually  that 
the  Directors  had  shifted  on  to  him  a  National  Curiosity 
from  England,  in  the  Accountant  line.  He  was  perfectly 
correct.  Mr.  Silas  Riley,  Accountant,  was  a  most  curi- 
ous animal — a  long,  gawky,  rawboned  Yorkshire  man, 
full  of  the  savage  self-conceit  that  blossoms  only  in  the 
best  county  in  England.  Arrogance  was  a  mild  word 
for  the  mental  attitude  of  Mr.  S.  Riley.    He  had  worked 


A  BANK  FRAUD  187 

himself  up,  after  seven  years,  to  a  Cashier's  position 
in  a  Huddersfield  Bank;  and  all  his  experience  lay 
among  the  factories  of  the  North.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  done  better  on  the  Bombay  side,  where  they  are 
happy  with  one-half  per  cent,  profits,  and  money  is  cheap. 
He  was  useless  for  Upper  India  and  a  wheat-Province, 
where  a  man  wants  a  large  head  and  a  touch  of  imagina- 
tion if  he  is  to  turn  out  a  satisfactory  balance-sheet. 

He  was  wonderfully  narrow-minded  in  business,  and, 
being  new  to  the  country,  had  no  notion  that  Indian 
banking  is  totally  distinct  from  Home  work.  Like 
most  clever  self-made  men,  he  had  much  simplicity  in 
his  nature;  and,  somehow  or  other,  had  construed  the 
ordinarily  polite  terms  of  his  letter  of  engagement  into 
a  beHef  that  the  Directors  had  chosen  him  on  account 
of  his  special  and  brilliant  talents,  and  that  they  set 
great  store  by  him.  This  notion  grew  and  crystallised; 
thus  adding  to  his  natural  North-country  conceit. 
Further,  he  was  delicate,  suffered  from  some  trouble  in 
his  chest,  and  was  short  in  his  temper. 

You  will  admit  that  Reggie  had  reason  to  call  his 
new  Accountant  a  Natural  Curiosity.  The  two  men 
failed  to  hit  it  off  at  all.  Riley  considered  Reggie  a 
wild,  feather-headed  idiot,  given  to  Heaven  only  knew 
what  dissipation  in  low  places  called  ^Messes,'  and 
totally  unfit  for  the  serious  and  solemn  vocation  of 
banking.  He  could  never  get  over  Reggie's  look  of 
youth  and  'you-be-damned '  air;  and  he  couldn't  under- 
stand Reggie's  friends — clean-built,  careless  men  in  the 
Army — who  rode  over  to  big  Sunday  breakfasts  at  the 
Bank,  and  told  sultry  stories  till  Riley  got  up  and  left 
the  room.    Riley  was  always  showing  Reggie  how  the 


i88  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

business  ought  to  be  conducted,  and  Reggie  had  more 
than  once  to  remind  him  that  seven  years'  limited  experi- 
ence between  Huddersfield  and  Beverley  did  not  qualify 
a  man  to  steer  a  big  up-country  business.  Then  Riley 
sulked,  and  referred  to  himself  as  a  pillar  of  the  Bank 
and  cherished  friend  of  the  Directors,  and  Reggie  tore 
his  hair.  If  a  man's  English  subordinates  fail  him  in 
India,  he  comes  to  a  hard  time  indeed,  for  native  help 
has  strict  limitations.  In  the  winter  Riley  went  sick 
for  weeks  at  a  time  with  his  lung  complaint,  and  this 
threw  more  work  on  Reggie.  But  he  preferred  it  to  the 
everlasting  friction  when  Riley  was  well. 

One  of  the  Travelling  Inspectors  of  the  Bank  dis- 
covered these  collapses  and  reported  them  to  the  Direc- 
tors. Now  Riley  had  been  foisted  on  the  Bank  by  an 
M.P.,  who  wanted  the  support  of  Riley's  father,  who, 
again,  was  anxious  to  get  his  son  out  to  a  warmer  climate 
because  of  those  lungs.  The  M.P.  had  interest  in  the 
Bank;  but  one  of  the  Directors  wanted  to  advance  a 
nominee  of  his  own;  and,  after  Riley's  father  had  died, 
he  made  the  rest  of  the  Board  see  that  an  Accountant 
who  was  sick  for  half  the  year  had  better  give  place  to  a 
healthy  man.  If  Riley  had  known  the  real  story  of  his 
appointment,  he  might  have  behaved  better;  but,  know- 
ing nothing,  his  stretches  of  sickness  alternated  with 
restless,  persistent,  meddling  irritation  of  Reggie,  and  all 
the  hundred  ways  in  which  conceit  in  a  subordinate  sit- 
uation can  find  play.  Reggie  used  to  call  him  striking 
and  hair-curling  names  behind  his  back  as  a  relief  to  his 
own  feelings;  but  he  never  abused  him  to  his  face,  because 
he  said,  '  Riley  is  such  a  frail  beast  that  half  of  his  loath- 
some conceit  is  due  to  pains  in  the  chest.' 


A  BANK  FRAUD  189 

Late  one  April,  Riley  went  very  sick  indeed.  The 
Doctor  punched  and  thumped  him,  and  told  him  he 
would  be  better  before  long.  Then  the  Doctor  went  to 
Reggie  and  said — 'Do  you  know  how  sick  your  Ac- 
countant is?' — 'No!'  said  Reggie — 'The  worse  the 
better,  confound  him!  He's  a  nuisance  when  he's  well. 
I'll  let  you  take  away  the  Bank  Safe  if  you  can  keep  him 
quiet  through  this  hot  weather.' 

But  the  Doctor  did  not  laugh— 'Man,  I'm  not  joking,' 
he  said.  'I'll  give  him  another  three  months  in  his  bed 
and  a  week  or  so  more  to  die  in.  On  my  honour  and 
reputation  that's  all  the  grace  he  has  in  this  world. 
Consumption  has  hold  of  him  to  the  marrow.' 

Reggie's  face  changed  at  once  into  the  face  of  'Mr. 
Reginald  Burke,'  and  he  answered,  'What  can  I  do?' 
— 'Nothing,'  said  the  Doctor.  'For  all  practical  pur- 
poses the  man  is  dead  already.  Keep  him  quiet  and 
cheerful,  and  tell  him  he's  going  to  recover.  That's 
all.     I'll  look  after  him  to  the  end,  of  course.' 

The  Doctor  went  away,  and  Reggie  sat  down  to  open 
the  evening  mail.  His  first  letter  was  one  from  the 
Directors,  intimating  for  his  information  that  Mr. 
Riley  was  to  resign,  under  a  month's  notice,  by  the 
terms  of  his  agreement,  telling  Reggie  that  their  letter 
to  Riley  would  follow,  and  advising  Reggie  of  the  com- 
ing of  a  new  Accountant,  a  man  whom  Reggie  knew  and 
liked. 

Reggie  lit  a  cheroot,  and,  before  he  had  finished 
smoking,  he  had  sketched  the  outHne  of  a  fraud.  He 
put  away — burked — the  Directors'  letter,  and  went 
in  to  talk  to  Riley,  who  was  as  ungracious  as  usual, 
and  fretting  himself  over  the  way  the  Bank  would  run 


IQO  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

during  his  illness.  He  never  thought  of  the  extra 
work  on  Reggie's  shoulders,  but  solely  of  the  damage 
to  his  own  prospects  of  advancement.  Then  Reggie 
assured  him  that  everything  would  be  well,  and  that 
he,  Reggie,  would  confer  with  Riley  daily  on  the  man- 
agement of  the  Bank.  Riley  was  a  Uttle  soothed, 
but  he  hinted  in  as  many  words  that  he  did  not  think 
much  of  Reggie's  business  capacity.  Reggie  was 
humble.  And  he  had  letters  in  his  desk  from  the 
Directors  that  a  Gilbarte  or  a  Hardie  might  have  been 
proud  of! 

The  days  passed  in  the  big  darkened  house,  and  the 
Directors'  letter  of  dismissal  to  Riley  came  and  was 
put  away  by  Reggie,  who,  every  evening,  brought  the 
books  to  Riley's  room,  and  showed  him  what  had  been 
going  forward,  while  Riley  snarled.  Reggie  did  his 
best  to  make  statements  pleasing  to  Riley,  but  the 
Accountant  was  sure  that  the  Bank  was  going  to  rack 
and  ruin  without  him.  In  June,  as  the  lying  in  bed 
told  on  his  spirit,  he  asked  whether  his  absence  had  been 
noted  by  the  Directors,  and  Reggie  said  that  they  had 
written  most  sympathetic  letters,  hoping  that  he  would 
be  able  to  resume  his  valuable  services  before  long. 
He  showed  Riley  the  letters;  and  Riley  said  that  the 
Directors  ought  to  have  written  to  him  direct.  A  few 
days  later,  Reggie  opened  Riley's  mail  in  the  half-light 
of  the  room,  and  gave  him  the  sheet — not  the  envelope 
—of  a  letter  to  Riley  from  the  Directors.  Riley  said 
he  would  thank  Reggie  not  to  interfere  with  his  private 
papers,  specially  as  Reggie  knew  he  was  too  weak  to 
open  his  own  letters.     Reggie  apologised. 

Then  Riley's  mood  changed,  and  he  lectured  Reggie 


A  BANK  FRAUD  191 

on  his  evil  ways:  his  horses  and  his  bad  friends.  'Of 
course  lying  here,  on  my  back,  Mr.  Burke,  I  can't  keep 
you  straight;  but  when  I'm  well,  I  do  hope  you'll  pay 
some  heed  to  my  words.'  Reggie,  who  had  dropped 
polo,  and  dinners,  and  tennis  and  all,  to  attend  to 
Riley,  said  that  he  was  penitent  and  settled  Riley's 
head  on  the  pillow  and  heard  him  fret  and  contradict 
in  hard,  dry,  hacking  whispers,  without  a  sign  of  im- 
patience. This,  at  the  end  of  a  heavy  day's  ofl&ce 
work,  doing  double  duty,  in  the  latter  half  of  June. 

When  the  new  Accountant  came,  Reggie  told  him 
the  facts  of  the  case,  and  announced  to  Riley  that  he 
had  a  guest  sta}dng  with  him.  Riley  said  that  he 
might  have  had  more  consideration  than  to  entertain 
his  'doubtful  friends'  at  such  a  time.  Reggie  made 
Carron,  the  new  Accountant,  sleep  at  the  Club  in  conse- 
quence. Carron's  arrival  took  some  of  the  heavy  work 
off  his  shoulders,  and  he  had  time  to  attend  to  Riley's 
exactions — to  explain,  soothe,  invent,  and  settle  and 
re-settle  the  poor  wretch  in  bed,  and  to  forge  compli- 
mentary letters  from  Calcutta.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
month  Riley  wished  to  send  some  money  home  to  his 
mother.  Reggie  sent  the  draft.  At  the  end  of  the 
second  month  Riley's  salary  came  in  just  the  same. 
Reggie  paid  it  out  of  his  own  pocket,  and,  with  it, 
wrote  Riley  a  beautiful  letter  from  the  Directors. 

Riley  was  very  ill  indeed,  but  the  flame  of  his  life 
burnt  unsteadily.  Now  and  then  he  would  be  cheer- 
ful and  confident  about  the  future,  sketching  plans  for 
going  Home  and  seeing  his  mother.  Reggie  listened 
patiently  when  the  office-work  was  over,  and  encour- 
aged him. 


192  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

At  other  times  Riley  insisted  on  Reggie  reading  the 
Bible  and  griin  'Methody'  tracts  to  him.  Out  of  these 
tracts  he  pointed  morals  directed  at  his  Manager.  But 
he  always  found  time  to  worry  Reggie  about  the  work- 
ing of  the  Bank,  and  to  show  him  where  the  weak  points 
lay. 

This  indoor,  sickroom  Hfe  and  constant  strains  wore 
Reggie  down  a  good  deal,  and  shook  his  nerves,  and 
lowered  his  billiard  play  by  forty  points.  But  the 
business  of  the  Bank,  and  the  business  of  the  sickroom, 
had  to  go  on,  though  the  glass  was  ii6°  in  the  shade. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  month  Riley  was  sinking 
fast,  and  had  begun  to  reaHse  that  he  was  very  sick. 
But  the  conceit  that  made  him  worry  Reggie  kept  him 
from  beUeving  the  worst.  'He  wants  some  sort  of 
mental  stimulant  if  he  is  to  drag  on,'  said  the  Doctor. 
^Keep  him  interested  in  Hfe  if  you  care  about  his  living.' 
So  Riley,  contrary  to  all  the  laws  of  business  and  the 
finance,  received  a  25-per-cent.  rise  of  salary  from  the 
Directors.  The  'mental  stimulant'  succeeded  beau- 
tifully. Riley  was  happy  and  cheerful,  and,  as  is  often 
the  case  in  consumption,  healthiest  in  mind  when  the 
body  was  weakest.  He  lingered  for  a  full  month, 
snarling  and  fretting  about  the  Bank,  talking  of  the 
future,  hearing  the  Bible  read,  lecturing  Reggie  on  sin, 
and  wondering  when  he  would  be  able  to  move  abroad. 

But  at  the  end  of  September,  one  mercilessly  hot 
evening,  he  rose  up  in  his  bed  with  a  Httle  gasp,  and 
said  quickly  to  Reggie — 'Mr.  Burke,  I  am  going  to  die. 
I  know  it  in  myself.  My  chest  is  all  hollow  inside,  and 
there's  nothing  to  breathe  with.  To  the  best  of  my 
knowledge  I  have  done  nowt' — he  was  returning  to  the 


A  BANK  FRAUD  193 

talk  of  his  boyhood — 'to  lie  heavy  on  my  conscience. 
God  be  thanked,  I  have  been  preserved  from  the  grosser 
forms  of  sin;  and  I  counsel  you,  Mr.  Burke     .     .     .' 

Here  his  voice  died  down,  and  Reggie  stooped  over  him. 

'  Send  my  salary  for  September  to  my  Mother  .  .  . 
done  great  things  with  the  Bank  if  I  had  been  spared 
.     .     .    mistaken  policy     .     .     .     no  f  ault  of  mine^  .  .  . 

Then  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and  die. 

Reggie  drew  the  sheet  over  Its  face,  and  went  out  into 
the  verandah,  with  his  last  'mental  stimulant' — a  letter 
of  condolence  and  sympathy  from  the  Directors — unused 
in  his  pocket. 

'If  I'd  been  only  ten  minutes  earlier,'  thought  Reggie, 
*  I  might  have  heartened  him  up  to  pull  through  another 
day.' 


TODS'  AMENDMENT 

The  World  hath  set  its  heavy  yoke 
Upon  the  old  white-bearded  folk 

Who  strive  to  please  the  King. 
God's  mercy  is  upon  the  young, 
God's  wisdom  in  the  baby  tongue 

That  fears  not  anything. 

— Tlie  Parable  of  Chajju  Bhagat. 

Now  Tods'  Mamma  was  a  singularly  charming  woman, 
and  every  one  in  Simla  knew  Tods.  Most  men  had  saved 
him  from  death  on  occasions.  He  was  beyond  his  ayah's 
control  altogether,  and  perilled  his  life  daily  to  find  out 
what  would  happen  if  you  pulled  a  Mountain  Battery 
mule's  tail.  He  was  an  utterly  fearless  young  Pagan, 
about  six  years  old,  and  the  only  baby  who  ever  broke  the 
holy  calm  of  the  Supreme  Legislative  Council. 

Thus  it  happened:  Tods'  pet  kid  got  loose,  and  fled  up 
the  hill,  off  the  Boileaugunge  Road,  Tods  after  it,  until  it 
burst  into  the  Viceregal  Lodge  lawn,  then  attached  to 
'Peterhoff.'  The  Council  were  sitting  at  the  time,  and 
the  windows  were  open  because  it  was  warm.  The  Red 
Lancer  in  the  porch  told  Tods  to  go  away;  but  Tods  knew 
the  Red  Lancer  and  most  of  the  Members  of  the  Council 
personally.  Moreover,  he  had  firm  hold  of  the  kid's 
collar,  and  was  being  dragged  all  across  the  flower-beds. 
*  Give  my  salaam  to  the  long  Councillor  Sahib,  and  ask 
him  to  help  me  take  Moti  back!'  gasped  Tods.    The 

194 


TODS'  AMENDMENT  igs 

Council  heard  the  noise  through  the  open  windows;  and, 
after  an  interval,  was  seen  the  shocking  spectacle  of  a 
Legal  Member  and  a  Lieutenant-Governor  helping,  under 
the  direct  patronage  of  a  Commander-in-Chief  and  a 
Viceroy,  one  small  and  very  dirty  boy  in  a  sailor's  suit 
and  a  tangle  of  brown  hair,  to  coerce  a  lively  and 
rebelHous  kid.  They  headed  it  off  down  the  path  to 
the  Mall,  and  Tods  went  home  in  triumph  and  told  his 
Mamma  that  all  the  Councillor  Sahibs  had  been  helping 
him  to  catch  Moti.  Whereat  his  Mamma  smacked  Tods 
for  interfering  with  the  administration  of  the  Empire;  but 
Tods  met  the  Legal  Member  the  next  day,  and  told  him  in 
confidence  that  if  the  Legal  Member  ever  wanted  to 
catch  a  goat,  he.  Tods,  would  give  him  all  the  help  in  his 
power.     '  Thank  you,  Tods,'  said  the  Legal  Member. 

Tods  was  the  idol  of  some  eighty  jhampanis,  and  half  as 
msiny  saises.  He  saluted  them  all  as '0  Brother.'  It  never 
entered  his  head  that  any  living  human  being  could  dis- 
obey his  orders;  and  he  was  the  buffer  between  the 
servants  and  his  Mamma's  wrath.  The  working  of  that 
household  turned  on  Tods,  who  was  adored  by  every  one 
from  the  dhoby  to  the  dog-boy.  Even  Futteh  Khan,  the 
villainous  loafer  khit  from  Mussoorie,  shirked  risking  Tods' 
displeasure  for  fear  his  co-mates  should  look  down  on  him. 

So  Tods  had  honour  in  the  land  from  Boileaugunge  to 
Chota  Simla,  and  ruled  justly  according  to  his  lights.  Of 
course,  he  spoke  Urdu,  but  he  had  also  mastered  many 
queer-side  speeches  like  the  chotee  bolee  of  the  women,  and 
held  grave  converse  with  shopkeepers  and  Hill-coolies 
alike.  He  was  precocious  for  his  age,  and  his  mixing  with 
natives  had  taught  him  some  of  the  more  bitter  truths  of 
life :  the  meanness  and  the  sordidness  of  it.    He  used;  over 


196  '  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

his  bread  and  milk,  to  deliver  solemn  and  serious  aphor- 
isms, translated  from  the  vernacular  into  the  English, 
that  made  his  Mamma  jump  and  vow  that  Tods  must  go 
Home  next  hot  weather. 

Just  when  Tods  was  in  the  bloom  of  his  power,  the 
Supreme  Legislature  were  hacking  out  a  Bill  for  the  Sub- 
Montane  Tracts,  a  revision  of  the  then  Act,  smaller  than 
the  Punjab  Land  Bill  but  affecting  a  few  hundred 
thousand  people  none  the  less.  The  Legal  Member  had 
built,  and  bolstered,  and  embroidered,  and  amended  that 
Bill,  till  it  looked  beautiful  on  paper.  Then  the  Council 
began  to  settle  what  they  called  the  ' minor  details.'  As  if 
any  EngUshman  legislating  for  natives  knows  enough  to 
know  which  are  the  minor  and  w^hich  are  the  major 
points,  from  the  native  point  of  view,  of  any  measure! 
That  Bill  was  a  triumph  of  '  safe-guarding  the  interests  of 
the  tenant.'  One  clause  provided  that  land  should  not  be 
leased  on  longer  terms  than  five  years  at  a  stretch ;  because, 
if  the  landlord  had  a  tenant  bound  down  for,  say,  twenty 
years,  he  would  squeeze  the  very  Hfe  out  of  him.  The 
notion  was  to  keep  up  a  stream  of  independent  cultivators 
in  the  Sub-Montane  Tracts;  and  ethnologically  and 
poHtically  the  notion  was  correct.  The  only  drawback 
was  that  it  was  altogether  wrong.  A  native's  Hfe  in 
India  implies  the  life  of  his  son.  Wherefore,  you  cannot 
legislate  for  one  generation  at  a  time.  You  must  con- 
sider the  next  from  the  native  point  of  view.  Curiously 
enough,  the  native  now  and  then,  and  in  Northern  India 
more  particularly,  hates  being  over-protected  against 
himself.  There  was  a  Naga  village  once,  where  they 
lived  on  dead  and  buried  Commissariat  mules.  .  .  . 
But  that  is  another  story. 


TODS'  AMENDMENT  197 

For  many  reasons,  to  be  explained  later,  the  people 
/-oncerned  objected  to  the  Bill.  The  Native  Member  in 
Council  knew  as  much  about  Punjabis  as  he  knew  about 
Charing  Cross.  He  had  said  in  Calcutta  that  'the  Bill 
was  entirely  in  accord  with  the  desires  of  that  large  and 
important  class,  the  cultivators';  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 
The  Legal  Member's  knowledge  of  natives  was  limited  to 
EngHsh-speaking  Durbaris,  and  his  own  red  chaprassis, 
the  Sub-Montane  Tracts  concerned  no  one  in  particular, 
the  Deputy  Commissioners  were  a  good  deal  too  driven  to 
make  representations,  and  the  measure  was  one  which 
dealt  with  small  landholders  only.  Nevertheless,  the 
Legal  Member  prayed  that  it  might  be  correct,  for  he  was 
a  nervously  conscientious  man.  He  did  not  know  that  no 
man  can  tell  what  natives  think  unless  he  mixes  with 
them  with  the  varnish  off.  And  not  always  then.  But 
he  did  the  best  he  knew.  And  the  measure  came  up  to 
the  Supreme  Council  for  the  final  touches,  while  Tods 
patrolled  the  Burra  Simla  Bazar  in  his  morning  rides,  and 
played  with  the  monkey  belonging  to  Ditta  Mull,  the 
bunnia,  and  listened,  as  a  child  Hstens,  to  all  the  stray 
talk  about  this  new  freak  of  the  Lord  Sahib's. 

One  day  there  was  a  dinner-party,  at  the  house  of  Tods' 
Mamma,  and  the  Legal  Member  came.  Tods  was  in  bed, 
but  he  kept  awake  till  he  heard  the  bursts  of  laughter 
from  the  men  over  the  coffee.  Then  he  paddled  out  in 
his  little  red  flannel  dressing-gown  and  his  night-suit  and 
took  refuge  by  the  side  of  his  father,  knowing  that  he 
would  not  be  sent  back.  'See  the  miseries  of  having  a 
family ! '  said  Tods'  father,  giving  Tods  three  prunes,  some 
water  in  a  glass  that  had  been  used  for  claret,  and  telUng 
him  to  sit  still.    Tods  sucked  the  prunes  slowly,  knowing 


198  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

that  he  would  have  to  go  when  they  were  finished,  and 
sipped  the  pink  water  Hke  a  man  of  the  world,  as  he 
listened  to  the  conversation.  Presently,  the  Legal 
Member,  talking  'shop'  to  the  Head  of  a  Department, 
mentioned  his  Bill  by  its  full  name — 'The  Sub-Montane 
Tracts  Ryotwary  Revised  Enactment/  Tods  caught  the 
one  native  word  and  lifting  up  his  small  voice  said — 

'Oh,  I  know  all  about  that!  Has  it  been  murramutted 
yet.  Councillor  Sahib? ' 

'How  much? '  said  the  Legal  Member. 

^Murramutted — mended. — Put  theek,  you  know — ^made 
nice  to  please  Ditta  Mull ! ' 

The  Legal  Member  left  his  place  and  moved  up  next  to 
Tods. 

'What  do  you  know  about  rvotwari.  Httle  man?'  he 
said. 

'  I'm  not  a  little  man,  I'm  Tods,  and  I  know  all  about  it. 
Ditta  Mull,  and  Choga  Lall,  and  Amir  Nath,  and — oh, 
lakhs  of  my  friends  tell  me  about  it  in  the  bazars  when  I 
talk  to  them.' 

'  Oh,  they  do— do  they?  What  do  they  say.  Tods? ' 

Tods  tucked  his  feet  under  his  red  flannel  dressing- 
gown  and  said — '  I  -mxistfink.' 

The  Legal  Member  waited  patiently.  Then  Tods  with 
infinite  compassion — 

'You  don't  speak  my  talk,  do  you.  Councillor  Sahib? ^ 

'No;  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  do  not,'  said  the  Legal 
Member. 

'  Very  well,'  said  Tods, '  I  must^w^  in  EngUsh.' 

He  spent  a  minute  putting  his  ideas  in  order,  and  began 
very  slowly,  translating  in  his  mind  from  the  vernacular 
to  EngUsh,  as  many  Anglo-Indian  children  do.  You  must 


TODS'  AMENDMENT  199 

remember  that  the  Legal  Member  helped  him  on  by 
questions  when  he  halted,  for  Tods  was  not  equal  to  the 
sustained  flight  of  oratory  that  follows. 

'Ditta  Mull  says,  ''This  thing  is  the  talk  of  a  child,  and 
was  made  up  by  fools.''  But  /  don't  think  you  are  a  fool, 
Councillor  Sahib'  said  Tods,  hastily.  'You  caught  my 
goat.  This  is  what  Ditta  Mull  says— "I  am  not  a  fool, 
and  why  should  the  Sirkar  say  I  am  a  child?  I  can  see  if 
the  land  is  good  and  if  the  landlord  is  good.  If  I  am  a 
fool  the  sin  is  upon  my  own  head.  For  five  years  I  take 
my  ground  for  which  I  have  saved  money,  and  a  wife  I 
take  too,  and  a  Httle  son  is  born."  Ditta  Mull  has  one 
daughter  now,  but  he  says  he  will  have  a  son,  soon.  And 
he  says,  "At  the  end  of  five  years,  by'this  new  butidobusty  I 
must  go.  If  I  do  not  go,  I  must  get  fresh  seals  and  takkus- 
stamps  on  the  papers,  perhaps  in  the  middle  of  the 
harvest,  and  to  go  to  the  law-courts  once  is  wisdom,  but 
to  go  twice  is  Jehannum.^'  That  is  quite  true,'  explained 
Tods,  gravely.  '  All  my  friends  say  so.  And  Ditta 
Mull  says,  "Always  fresh  takkus  and  pa>dng  money 
to  vakils  and  chaprassis  and  law-courts  every  five  years,  or 
else  the  landlord  makes  me  go.  Why  do  I  want  to  go? 
Am  I  a  fool?  If  I  am  a  fool  and  do  not  know,  after  forty 
years,  good  land  when  I  see  it,  let  me  die !  But  if  the  new 
bundobust  says  for  fifteen  years,  that  it  is  good  and  wise. 
My  little  son  is  a  man,  and  I  am  burnt,  and  he  takes  the 
ground  or  another  ground,  paying  only  once  for  the 
takkus-?>t2im^s  on  the  papers,  and  his  little  son  is  born  and 
at  the  end  of  fifteen  years  is  a  man  too.  But  what  profit  is 
there  in  five  years  and  fresh  papers !  Nothing  but  dikh 
trouble,  dikh.  We  are  not  young  men  who  take  these 
lands,  but  old  ones— not  farmers^  but  tradesmen  with  a 


300  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

little  money — and  for  fifteen  years  we  shall  have  peace. 
Nor  are  we  children  that  the  Sirkar  should  treat  us  so."' 

Here  Tods  stopped  short,  for  the  whole  table  were  lis- 
tening.  The  Legal  Member  said  to  Tods, '  Is  that  all? ' 

'All  I  can  remember,'  said  Tods.  'But  you  should  see 
Ditta  Mull's  big  monkey.  It's  just  like  a  Coimdllor 
SahibJ 

'  Tods !     Go  to  bed,'  said  his  father. 

Tods  gathered  up  his  dressing-gown  tail  and  departed. 

The  Legal  Member  brought  his  hand  down  on  the 
table  with  a  crash— 'By  Jove!'  said  the  Legal  Member, 
'I  believe  the  boy  is  right.  The  short  tenure  is  the 
weak  point.' 

He  left  early,  thinking  over  what  Tods  had  said. 
Now,  it  was  obviously  impossible  for  the  Legal  Member 
to  play  with  a  hunnia's  monkey,  by  way  of  getting 
understanding;  but  he  did  better.  He  made  inquiries, 
always  bearing  in  mind  the  fact  that  the  real  native — 
not  the  hybrid.  University-trained  mule — is  as  timid  as 
a  colt,  and,  little  by  little,  he  coaxed  some  of  the  men 
whom  the  measure  concerned  most  intimately  to  give 
in  their  views,  which  squared  very  closely  with  Tods' 
evidence. 

So  the  BiU  was  amended  in  that  clause;  and  the 
Legal  Member  was  filled  with  an  uneasy  suspicion  that 
Native  Members  represent  very  little  except  the  Orders 
they  carry  on  their  bosoms.  But  he  put  the  thought 
from  him  as  illiberal.    He  was  a  most  Liberal  man. 

After  a  time,  the  news  spread  through  the  bazars  that 
Tods  had  got  the  Bill  recast  in  the  tenure-clause,  and 
if  Tods'  Mamma  had  not  interfered,  Tods  would  have 
made  himself  sick  on  the  baskets  of  fruit  and  pistachio 


TODS'  AMENDMENT  20t 

nuts  and  Cabuli  grapes  and  almonds  that  crowded  the 
verandah.  Till  he  went  Home,  Tods  ranked  some  few 
degrees  before  the  Viceroy  in  popular  estimation.  But 
for  the  little  Hfe  of  him  Tods  could  not  understand  why. 
In  the  Legal  Member's  private-paper-box  still  lies 
the  rough  draft  of  the  Sub-Montane  Tracts  Ryotwary 
Revised  Enactment;  and,  opposite  the  twenty-second 
clause  pencilled  in  blue  chalk,  and  signed  by  the  Legal 
Member,  are  the  words  ^  Tods'  Amendment  J 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGIMENT 

Jain  'Ardin'  was  a  Sargint's  wife, 
A  Sargint's  wife  wus  she. 
«  She  married  of  'un  in  Orldershort 

An'  corned  acrost  the  sea. 
(Chorus)  'Ave  you  never  'eard  tell  o'  Jain  'Ardin'? 

Jain  'Ardin'? 
Jain  'Ardin'? 
'Ave  j'^ou  never  'eard  tell  o'  Jain  'Ardin'? 
The  pride  o'  the  Companeef 

— Old  Barrack-Room  Ballad. 

'A  GENTLEMAN  who  doesn't  know  the  Circasian  Circle 
ought  not  to  stand  up  for  it — puttin*  everybody  out.' 
That  was  what  Miss  McKenna  said,  and  the  Sergeant 
who  was  my  vis-d-vis  looked  the  same  thing.  I  was 
afraid  of  Miss  McKenna.  She  was  six  feet  high,  all 
yellow  freckles  and  red  hair,  and  was  simply  clad  in 
white  satin  shoes,  a  pink  muslin  dress,  an  apple-green 
stuff  sash,  and  black  silk  gloves,  with  yellow  roses  in 
her  hair.  Wherefore  I  fled  from  Miss  McKenna  and 
sought  my  friend  Private  Mulvaney,  who  was  at  the 
cant — refreshment- table. 

*So  you've  been  dancin'  with  little  Jhansi  McKenna, 
Sorr — she  that's  goin'  to  marry  Corp'ril  Slane?  Whin 
you  next  conversh  wid  your  lorruds  an'  your  ladies, 
tell  thim  you've  danced  wid  little  Jhansi.  'Tis  a  thing 
to  be  proud  av.' 

ao2 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGIMENT  aoj 

But  I  wasn't  proud.  I  was  humble.  I  saw  a  story 
in  Private  Mulvaney's  eye;  and  besides,  if  he  stayed 
too  long  at  the  bar,  he  would,  I  knew,  qualify  for  more 
pack-drill.  Now  to  meet  an  esteemed  friend  doing 
pack-drill  outside  the  guard-room  is  embarrassing, 
especially  if  you  happen  to  be  walking  with  his  Com- 
manding Officer. 

'Come  on  to  the  parade-ground,  Mulvaney,  it's 
cooler  there,  and  tell  me  about  Miss  McKenna.  What 
is  she,  and  who  is  she,  and  why  is  she  called  '' Jhansi"?' 

'D'ye  mane  to  say  you've  niver  heard  av  Ould  Pum- 
meloe's  daughter?  An'  you  thinkin'  you  know  things! 
I'm  wid  ye  in  a  minut'  whin  me  poipe's  ht.' 

We  came  out  under  the  stars.  Mulvaney  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  artillery  bridges,  and  began  in  the  usual 
way:  his  pipe  between  his  teeth,  his  big  hands  clasped 
and  dropped  between  his  knees,  and  his  cap  well  on  the 
back  of  his  head — 

'Whin  Mrs.  Mulvaney,  that  is,  was  Miss  Shad,  that 
was,  you  were  a  dale  younger  than  you  are  now,  an' 
the  Army  was  dif'rint  in  sev'ril  e-senshuls.  Bhoys 
have  no  call  for  to  marry  nowadays,  an'  that's  why 
the  Army  has  so  few  rale,  good,  honust,  swearin',  strap- 
agin',  tinder-hearted,  heavy-futted  wives  as  ut  used  to 
have  whin  I  was  a  Corp'ril.  I  was  rejuced  afther- 
wards — but  no  matther — I  was  a  Corp'ril  wanst.  In 
thim  times,  a  man  Hved  an'  died  wid  his  rigiment; 
an'  by  natur',  he  married  whin  he  was  a  man.  Whin 
I  was  Corp'ril — Mother  av  Hivin,  how  the  rigimint 
has  died  an'  been  borrun  since  that  day! — my  Colour- 
Sar'jint  was  Ould  McKenna,  an'  a  married  man  tu. 
An'  his  woife — his  first  woife,   for  he  married  three 


304  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

times  did  McKenna — was  Bridget  McKenna,  from  Port- 
arlington,  like  mesilf.  I've  misremembered  fwhat  her 
first  name  was,  but  in  B  Comp'ny  we  called  her  *'Ould 
Pummeloe,"  by  reason  av  her  figure,  which  was  entirely 
cir-cum-fe-renshill.  Like  the  big  dhrum!  Now  that 
woman — God  rock  her  sowl  to  rest  in  glory! — was  for 
everlastin'  havin'  childher ;  an'  McKenna,  whin  the  fifth  or 
sixth  come  squallin'  on  to  the  musther-roll,  swore  he 
wud  number  thim  off  in  future.  But  Ould  Pummeloe  she 
prayed  av  him  to  christen  them  after  the  names  av  the 
stations  they  was  borrun  in.  So  there  was  Colaba 
McKenna,  an'  Muttra  McKenna,  an'  a  whole  Presi- 
dincy  av  other  McKennas,  an'  little  Jhansi,  dancin'  over 
yonder.  Whin  the  childher  wasn't  bornin',  they  was 
dyin';  for,  av  our  childher  die  like  sheep  in  these  days, 
they  died  like  flies  thin.  I  lost  me  own  Httle  Shad — but 
no  matther.  'Tis  long  ago,  and  Mrs.  Mulvaney  niver 
had  another. 

^I'm  digresshin.  Wan  divil's  hot  srnnmer,  there 
come  an  order  from  some  mad  ijjit,  whose  name  I  mis- 
remember,  for  the  rigimint  to  go  up-country.  Maybe 
they  wanted  to  know  how  the  new  rail  carried  throops. 
They  knew!  On  me  sowl,  they  knew  before  they  was 
done !  Old  Pummeloe  had  just  buried  Muttra  McKenna ; 
an',  the  season  bein'  onwholesim,  only  little  Jhansi 
McKenna,  who  was  four  year  ould  thin,  was  left  on 
hand. 

'Five  childher  gone  in  fourteen  months.  'Twas 
harrd,  wasn't  ut? 

'  So  we  wint  up  to  our  new  station  in  that  blazin'  heat 
— may  the  curse  av  Saint  Lawrence  conshume  the  man 
who  gave  the  ordher!    Will  I  iver  forget  that  move? 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGIMENT  205 

Tliey  gave  us  two  wake  thrains  to  the  rigimint;  an' 
we  was  eight  hundher'  and  sivinty  strong.  There  was 
A,  B,  C,  an'  D  Companies  in  the  secon'  thrain,  wid 
twelve  women,  no  orficers'  ladies,  an'  thirteen  childher. 
We  was  to  go  six  hundher'  miles,  an'  railways  was  new 
in  thim  days.  Whin  we  had  been  a  night  in  the  belly 
av  the  thrain— the  men  ragin'  in  their  shirts  an'  dhrink- 
in'  anything  they  cud  find,  an'  eatin'  bad  fruit-stuff 
whin  they  cud,  for  we  cudn't  stop  'em — I  was  a  Corp'ril 
thin— the  cholera  bruk  out  wid  the  dawnin'  av  the 
day. 

*Pray  to  the  Saints,  you  may  niver  see  cholera  in 
a  throop- thrain!  'Tis  like  the  judgmint  av  God  hittin' 
down  from  the  nakid  sky!  We  run  into  a  rest-camp 
— as  ut  might  have  been  Ludianny,  but  not  by  any 
means  so  comfortable.  The  Orficer  Commandin'  sent 
a  telegrapt  up  the  line,  three  hundher'  mile  up,  askin' 
for  help.  Faith,  we  wanted  ut,  for  ivry  sowl  av  the 
followers  ran  for  the  dear  life  as  soon  as  the  thrain 
stopped;  an'  by  the  time  that  telegrapt  was  writ,  there 
wasn't  a  naygur  in  the  station  exceptin'  the  telegrapt- 
clerk — an'  he  only  bekaze  he  was  held  down  to  his 
chair  by  the  scruff  av  his  sneakin'  black  neck.  Thin 
the  day  began  wid  the  noise  in  the  carr'ges,  an'  the 
rattle  av  the  men  on  the  platform  fallin'  over,  arms 
an'  all,  as  they  stud  for  to  answer  the  Comp'ny  muster- 
roll  before  goin'  over  to  the  camp.  'Tisn't  for  me  to 
say  what  like  the  cholera  was  like.  Maybe  the  Doctor 
cud  ha'  tould,  av  he  hadn't  dropped  on  to  the  platform 
from  the  door  av  a  carriage  where  we  was  takin'  out  the 
dead.  He  died  wid  the  rest.  Some  bhoys  had  died  in 
the  night.    We  tuk  out  siven,  and  twenty  more  was 


2o6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

sickenin'  as  we  tuk  thim.  The  women  was  huddled  up 
anyways,  screamin'  wid  fear. 

'Sez  the  Commandin'  Orficer  whose  name  I  misre- 
member,  ^'Take  the  women  over  to  that  tope  av  trees 
yonder.  Get  thim  out  av  the  camp.  'Tis  no  place 
for  thim." 

'Ould  Pummeloe  was  sittin'  on  her  beddin'-rowl, 
thryin'  to  kape  Httle  Jhansi  quiet.  ''Go  off  to  that 
tope!"  sez  the  Orficer.     ''Go  out  av  the  men's  way!" 

'"Be  damned  av  I  do!"  sez  Quid  Pummeloe,  an' 
little  Jhansi,  squattin'  by  her  mother's  side,  squeaks 
out,  "Be  damned  av  I  do,"  tu.  Thin  Quid  Pummeloe 
turns  to  the  women  an'  she  sez,  "Are  ye  goin'  to  let  the 
bhoys  die  while  you're  picnickin',  ye  sluts?"  sez  she. 
"  'Tis  wather  they  want.     Come  on  an'  help." 

'Wid  that,  she  turns  up  her  sleeves  an'  steps  out 
for  a  well  behind  the  rest-camp — Uttle  Jhansi  trottin* 
behind  v/id  a  lotah  an'  string,  an'  the  other  women 
followin'  Hke  lambs,  wid  horse-buckets  and  cookin' 
pots.  Whin  all  the  things  was  full,  Quid  Pummeloe 
marches  back  into  camp — 'twas  like  a  battlefield  wid 
all  the  glory  missin' — at  the  hid  av  the  rigimint  av 
women. 

'"McKenna,  me  man!"  she  sez,  wid  a  voice  on  her 
like  grand-roun's  challenge,  "tell  the  bhoys  to  be  quiet. 
Ould  Pummeloe's  comin'  to  look  afther  thim — wid 
free  dhrinks." 

'Thin  we  cheered,  an'  the  cheerin'  in  the  lines  was 
louder  than  the  noise  av  the  poor  divils  wid  the  sick- 
ness on  thim.     But  not  much. 

'You  see,  we  was  a  new  an'  raw  rigimint  in  those 
days,  an'  we  cud  make  neither  head  nor  tail  av  th^ 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGIMENT  207 

sickness;  an'  so  we  was  useless.  The  men  was  goin' 
roun'  an'  about  like  dumb  sheep,  waitin'  for  the  nex' 
man  to  fall  over,  an'  sayin'  undher  their  spache,  "Fwhat 
is  ut?  In  the  name  av  God,  Jwhat  is  ut?"  'Twas 
horrible.  But  through  ut  all,  up  an'  down,  an'  down 
an'  up,  wint  Ould  Pummeloe  an'  little  Jhansi — all  we 
cud  see  av  the  baby,  undher  a  dead  man's  helmut 
wid  the  chin-strap  swingin'  about  her  little  stummick 
— up  an'  down  wid  the  wather  an'  fwhat  brandy  there 
was. 

'Now  an'  thin  Ould  Pummeloe,  the  tears  runnin' 
down  her  fat,  red  face,  sez,  "Me  bhoys,  me  poor,  dead, 
darlin'  bhoys!"  But,  for  the  most,  she  was  thryin'  to 
put  heart  into  the  men  an'  kape  thim  stiddy;  and  little 
Jhansi  was  tellin'  thim  all  they  wud  be  "betther  in  the 
mornin'."  'Twas  a  thrick  she'd  picked  up  from  hearin' 
Ould  Pummeloe  whin  Muttra  was  burnin'  out  wid  fever. 
In  the  mornin'!  'Twas  the  iverlastin'  mornin'  at 
St.  Pether's  Gate  was  the  mornin'  for  siven-an '-twenty 
good  men;  and  twenty  more  was  sick  to  the  death  in 
that  bitter,  burnin'  sun.  But  the  women  worked  like 
angils  as  I've  said,  an'  the  men  like  divils,  till  two  doctors 
come  down  from  above,  and  we  was  rescued. 

'But,  just  before  that,  Ould  Pummeloe,  on  her  knees 
over  a  bhoy  in  my  squad^right-cot  man  to  me  he  was  in 
the  barrick — tellin'  him  the  worrud  av  the  Church  that 
niver  failed  a  man  yet,  sez,  ''Hould  me  up,  bhoys! 
I'm  feeHn'  bloody  sick! "  'Twas  the  sun,  not  the  cholera, 
did  ut.  She  misremembered  she  was  only  wearin'  her 
ould  black  bonnet,  an'  she  died  wid  ''McKenna,  me 
man,"  houldin'  her  up,  an'  the  bhoys  howled  whin 
they  buried  her. 


2o8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

'That  night,  a  big  wind  blew,  an'  blew,  an*  blew, 
an'  blew  the  tents  flat.  But  it  blew  the  cholera  away 
an'  niver  another  case  there  was  all  the  while  we  was 
waitin' — ten  days  in  quarantin'.  Av  you  will  belave 
me,  the  thrack  av  the  sickness  in  the  camp  was  for  all 
the  wurruld  the  thrack  av  a  man  walkin'  four  times  in 
a  figur-av-eight  through  the  tents.  They  say  'tis  the 
Wandherin'  Jew  takes  the  cholera  wid  him.  I  believe 
ut. 

'An'  that'  said  Mulvaney,  illogically,  'is  the  cause 
why  little  Jhansi  McKenna  is  fwhat  she  is.  She  was 
brought  up  by  the  Quartermaster  Sergeant's  wife 
whin  McKenna  died,  but  she  b'longs  to  B  Comp'ny; 
and  this  tale  I'm  tellin'  you — wid  a  propei  appreciashin 
av  Jhansi  McKenna — I've  belted  into  ivry  recruity  av 
the  Comp'ny  as  he  was  drafted.  'Faith,  'twas  me 
belted  Corp'ril  Slane  into  askin'  the  girl  I' 

'Not  reaUy?' 

'Man,  I  did!  She's  no  beauty  to  look  at,  but  she's 
Ould  Pummeloe's  daughter,  an'  'tis  my  juty  to  pro- 
vide for  her.  Just  before  Slane  got  his  promotion 
I  sez  to  him,  "Slane,"  sez  I,  "to-morrow  'twill  be  in- 
subordinashin  av  me  to  chastise  you;  but,  by  the  sowl 
av  Ould  Pimimeloe,  who  is  now  in  glory,  av  you  don't 
give  me  your  wurrud  to  ask  Jhansi  McKenna  at  wanst, 
I'll  peel  the  flesh  off  yer  bones  wid  a  brass  huk  to-night. 
'Tis  a  dishgrace  to  B  Comp'ny  she's  been  single  so  long! '' 
sez  I.  Was  I  goin'  to  let  a  three-year-ould  preshume  to 
discoorse  wid  me — my  will  bein'  set?  No!  Slane 
wint  an'  asked  her.  He's  a  good  bhoy  is  Slane.  Wan 
av  these  days  he'll  get  into  the  Com'ssariat  an'  dhrive 
a  buggy  wid  his — savin's.    So  I  provided  for  Ould 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGIMENT  209 

Pummeloe's  daughter;  an'  now  you  go  along  an'  dance 
agin  wid  her/ 

And  I  did. 

I  felt  a  respect  for  Miss  Jhansi  McKenna;  and  I  went  to 
her  wedding  later  on. 

Perhaps  I  ynll  tell  you  about  that  one  of  these  days. 


IN  THE  PRIDE  OF  HIS  YOUTH 

*  Stopped  in  the  straight  when  the  race  was  his  own  I 

Look  at  him  cutting  it — cur  to  the  bone!' 

*Ask,  ere  the  youngster  be  rated  and  chidden, 

What  did  he  carry  and  how  M'as  he  ridden? 

Maybe  they  used  him  too  much  at  the  start; 

Maybe  Fate's  weight-cloths  are  breaking  his  heart.' 

— Life's  Handicap. 

When  I  was  telling  you  of  the  joke  that  The  Worm 
played  off  on  the  Senior  Subaltern,  I  promised  a  some- 
what similar  tale,  but  with  all  the  jest  left  out.  This  is 
that  tale. 

Dicky  Hatt  was  kidnapped  in  his  early,  early  youth — 
neither  by  landlady's  daughter,  housemaid,  barmaid,  nor 
cook,  but  by  a  girl  so  nearly  of  his  own  caste  that  only  a 
woman  could  have  said  she  was  just  the  least  little  bit  in 
the  world  below  it.  This  happened  a  month  before  he 
came  out  to  India,  and  five  days  after  his  one-and- 
twentieth  birthday.  The  girl  was  nineteen — six  years 
older  than  Dicky  in  the  things  of  this  world,  that  is  to  say 
— and,  for  the  time,  twice  as  fooHsh  as  he. 

Excepting,  always,  falling  off  a  horse  there  is  nothing 
more  fatally  easy  than  marriage  before  the  Registrar. 
The  ceremony  costs  less  than  fifty  shillings,  and  is  re- 
markably like  walking  into  a  pawn-shop.  After  the 
declarations  of  residence  have  been  put  in,  four  minutes 
will  cover  the  rest  of  the  proceedings — fees,  attestation 


EST  THE  PRIDE  OF  HIS  YOUTH  211 

and  all.  Then  the  Registrar  slides  the  blotting-pad  over 
the  names,  and  says  grimly  with  his  pen  between  his 
teeth,  'Now  you're  man  and  wife';  and  the  couple  walk 
out  into  the  street  feeUng  as  if  something  were  horribly 
illegal  somewhere. 

But  that  ceremony  holds  and  can  drag  a  man  to  his  un- 
doing just  as  thoroughly  as  the  '  long  as  ye  both  shall  Hve ' 
curse  from  the  altar-rails,  with  the  bridesmaids  giggling 
behind,  and  'The  Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden'  Hfting 
the  roof  off.  In  this  manner  was  Dicky  Hatt  kidnapped, 
and  he  considered  it  vastly  fine,  for  he  had  received  an  ap- 
pointment in  India  which  carried  a  magnificent  salary  from 
the  Home  point  of  view.  The  marriage  was  to  be  kept 
secret  for  a  year.  Then  Mrs.  Dicky  Hatt  was  to  come 
out,  and  the  rest  of  Hfe  was  to  be  a  glorious  golden  mist. 
That  was  how  they  sketched  it  under  the  Addison  Road 
Station  lamps;  and,  after  one  short  month,  came  Graves- 
end  and  Dicky  steaming  out  to  his  new  life,  and  the  girl 
crying  in  a  thirty-shillings  a  week  bed-and-living-room,  in 
a  back-street  off  MontpeUer  Square  near  the  Knights- 
bridge  Barracks. 

But  the  country  that  Dicky  came  to  was  a  hard  land 
where  men  of  twenty-one  were  reckoned  very  small  boys 
indeed,  and  life  was  expensive.  The  salary  that  loomed 
so  large  six  thousand  miles  away  did  not  go  far.  Particu- 
larly when  Dicky  divided  it  by  two,  and  remitted  more 
than  a  fair  half,  at  i-6|,  to  Montpelier  Square.  One 
hundred  and  thirty-five  rupees  out  of  three  hundred  and 
thirty  is  not  much  to  Hve  on;  but  it  was  absurd  to  suppose 
that  Mrs.  Hatt  could  exist  for  ever  on  the  £20  held  back 
by  Dicky  from  his  outfit  allowance.  Dicky  saw  this  and 
remitted  at  once;  always  remembering  that  Rs.  700  were 


>.i2  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

!;o  be  paid,  twelve  months  later,  for  a  first-class  passage 
out  for  a  lady.  When  you  add  to  these  trifling  details  the 
natural  instincts  of  a  boy  beginning  a  new  life  in  a  new 
country  and  longing  to  go  about  and  enjoy  himself,  and 
the  necessity  for  grappling  with  strange  work — which, 
properly  speaking,  should  take  up  a  boy's  undivided 
attention — you  will  see  that  Dicky  started  handicapped. 
He  saw  it  himself  for  a  breath  or  two;  but  he  did  not  guess 
the  full  beauty  of  his  future. 

As  the  hot  weather  began,  the  shackles  settled  on  him 
and  ate  into  his  flesh.  First  would  come  letters — big, 
crossed,  seven-sheet  letters — from  his  wife,  telling  him 
how  she  longed  to  see  him,  and  what  a  Heaven  upon  earth 
would  be  their  property  when  they  met.  Then  some  boy 
of  the  chummery  wherein  Dicky  lodged  would  pound  on 
the  door  of  his  bare  Httle  room,  and  tell  him  to  come  out 
to  look  at  a  pony — the  very  thing  to  suit  him.  Dicky 
could  not  afford  ponies.  He  had  to  explain  this.  Dicky 
could  not  afford  Hving  in  the  chummery,  modest  as  it 
was.  He  had  to  explain  this  before  he  moved  to  a  single 
room  next  the  office  where  he  worked  aU  day.  He  kept 
house  on  a  green  oilcloth  table-cover,  one  chair,  one  bed- 
stead, one  photograph,  one  tooth-glass  very  strong  and 
thick,  a  seven-rupee  eight-anna  filter,  and  messing  by 
contract  at  thirty-seven  rupees  a  month.  Which  last 
item  was  extortion.  He  had  no  punkah,  for  a  pimkah 
costs  fifteen  rupees  a  month;  but  he  slept  on  the  roof  of 
the  office  with  all  his  wife's  letters  under  his  pillow.  Now 
and  again  he  was  asked  out  to  dinner,  where  he  got  both  a 
pimkah  and  an  iced  drink.  But  this  was  seldom,  for 
people  objected  to  recognising  a  boy  who  had  evidently 
the  instincts  of  a  Scotch  tallow-chandler,  and  who  lived  in 


IN  TPIE  PRIDE  OF  HIS  YOUTH  213 

such  a  nasty  fashion.  Dicky  could  not  subscribe  to  any 
amusement,  so  he  found  no  amusement  except  the  pleas- 
ure of  turning  over  his  Bank-book  and  reading  what  it 
said  about  'loans  on  approved  security/  That  cost 
nothing.  He  remitted  through  a  Bombay  Bank,  by 
the  way,  and  the  Station  knew^  nothing  of  his  private 
affairs. 

Each  month  he  sent  Home  all  that  he  could  possibly 
spare  for  his  wife  and  for  another  Reason  which  was  ex- 
pected to  explain  itself  shortly,  and  would  require  more 
money. 

About  this  time  Dicky  was  overtaken  with  the  nervous, 
haunting  fear  that  besets  married  men  when  they  are  out 
of  sorts.  He  had  no  pension  to  look  to.  What  if  he 
should  die  suddenly,  and  leave  his  wife  unprovided  for? 
The  thought  would  lay  hold  of  him  in  the  still,  hot  nights 
on  the  roof,  till  the  shaking  of  his  heart  made  him  think 
that  he  was  going  to  die  then  and  there  of  heart-disease. 
Now  this  is  a  frame  of  mind  which  no  boy  has  a  right  to 
know.  It  is  a  strong  man's  trouble;  but,  coming  when  it 
did,  it  nearly  drove  poor  punkah-less,  perspiring  Dicky 
Hatt  mad.     He  could  tell  no  one  about  it. 

A  certain  amount  of '  screw '  is  as  necessary  for  a  man  as 
for  a  billiard-ball.  It  makes  them  both  do  wonderful 
things.  Dicky  needed  money  badly,  and  he  worked  for  it 
like  a  horse.  But,  naturally,  the  men  who  owed  him 
knew  that  a  boy  can  live  very  comfortably  on  a  certain  in- 
come— pay  in  India  is  a  matter  of  age  not  merit,  you  see, 
and,  if  their  particular  boy  wished  to  work  like  two  boys, 
Business  forbid  that  they  should  stop  him.  But  Business 
forbid  that  they  should  give  him  an  increase  of  pay  at  his 
present   ridiculously   immature    age!    So   Dicky   won 


t£4  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

certain  rises  of  salary — ample  for  a  boy — not  enough  for 
a  wife  and  a  child — certainly  too  Httle  for  the  seven- 
hundred-rupee  passage  that  he  and  Mrs.  Hatt  had  dis- 
cussed so  lightly  once  upon  a  time.  And  with  this  he  was 
forced  to  be  content. 

Somehow,  all  his  money  seemed  to  fade  away  in  Home 
drafts  and  the  crushing  Exchange,  and  the  tone  of  the 
Home  letters  changed  and  grew  querulous.  'Why 
wouldn't  Dicky  have  his  wife  and  the  baby  out?  Surely 
he  had  a  salary — a  fine  salary — and  it  was  too  bad  of  him 
to  enjoy  himself  in  India.  But  would  he — could  he — 
make  the  next  draft  a  little  more  elastic? '  Here  followed 
a  list  of  baby's  kit,  as  long  as  a  Parsee's  bill.  Then  Dicky, 
whose  heart  yearned  to  his  wife  and  the  little  son  he  had 
never  seen, — which,  again,  is  a  feeling  no  boy  is  entitled 
to, — enlarged  the  draft  and  wrote  queer  half-boy,  half- 
man  letters,  saying  that  life  was  not  so  enjoyable  after  all 
and  would  the  little  wife  wait  yet  a  little  longer?  But  the 
Httle  wife,  however  much  she  approved  of  money,  objected 
to  waiting,  and  there  was  a  strange,  hard  sort  of  ring  in 
her  letters  that  Dicky  didn't  understand.  How  could  he, 
poor  boy? 

Later  on  still — just  as  Dicky  had  been  told — apropos 
of  another  youngster  who  had  'made  a  fool  of  himseK'  as 
the  saying  is — that  matrimony  would  not  only  ruin  his 
further  chances  of  advancement,  but  would  lose  him  his 
present  appointment — came  the  news  that  the  baby,  his 
own  little,  little  son,  had  died  and,  behind  this,  forty  lines 
of  an  angry  woman's  scrawl,  saying  the  death  might  have 
been  averted  if  certain  things,  all  costing  money,  had  been 
done,  or  if  the  mother  and  the  baby  had  been  with  Dicky. 
The  letter  struck  at  Dicky's  naked  heart;  but,  not  being 


I 


IN  THE  PRIDE  OF  HIS  YOUTH  215 

officially  entitled  to  a  baby,  he  could  show  no  sign  of 
trouble. 

How  Dicky  won  through  the  next  four  months,  and 
what  hope  he  kept  alight  to  force  him  into  his  work,  no 
one  dare  say.  He  pounded  on,  the  seven-hundred-rupee 
passage  as  far  away  as  ever,  and  his  style  of  living  un- 
changed, except  when  he  launched  into  a  new  filter. 
There  was  the  strain  of  his  office-work,  and  the  strain  of 
his  remittances,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  boy's  death, 
which  touched  the  boy  more,  perhaps,  than  it  would  have 
touched  a  man;  and,  beyond  all,  the  enduring  strain  of  his 
daily  Hfe.  Gray-headed  seniors  who  approved  of  his 
thrift  and  his  fashion  of  denying  himself  everything 
pleasant,  reminded  him  of  the  old  saw  that  says — 

If  a  youth  would  be  distinguished  in  his  art,  art,  art, 
He  must  keep  the  girls  away  from  his  heart,  heart,  heart. 

And  Dicky,  who  fancied  he  had  been  through  every 
trouble  that  a  man  is  permitted  to  know,  had  to  laugh  and 
agree;  with  the  last  line  of  his  balanced  Bank-book 
jingHng  in  his  head  day  and  night. 

But  he  had  one  more  sorrow  to  digest  before  the  end. 
There  arrived  a  letter  from  the  little  wife — the  natural 
sequence  of  the  others  if  Dicky  had  only  known  it — and 
the  burden  of  that  letter  was  *  gone  with  a  handsomer  man 
than  you.'  It  was  a  rather  curious  production,  without 
stops,  scnething  like  this — *  She  was  not  going  to  wait  for 
ever  and  the  baby  was  dead  and  Dicky  was  only  a  boy 
and  he  would  never  set  eyes  on  her  again  and  why  hadn't 
he  waved  his  handkerchief  to  her  when  he  left  Gravesend 
and  God  was  her  judge  she  was  a  wicked  woman  but  Dicky 


2i6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

was  worse  enjoying  himself  in  India  and  this  other  man 
loved  the  ground  she  trod  on  and  would  Dicky  ever  for- 
give her  for  she  would  never  forgive  Dicky;  and  there 
was  no  address  to  write  to.' 

Instead  of  thanking  his  stars  that  he  was  free,  Dicky 
discovered  exactly  how  an  injured  husband  feels — again, 
not  at  all  the  knowledge  to  ^:^hich  a  boy  is  entitled — for 
his  mind  went  back  to  his  wife  as  he  remembered  her  in 
the  thirty-shilling  '  suite '  in  Monlpelier  Square,  when  the 
dawn  of  his  last  morning  in  England  was  breaking,  and 
she  was  crying  in  the  bed.  Whereat  he  rolled  about  on 
his  bed  and  bit  his  fingers.  He  never  stopped  to  think 
whether,  if  he  had  met  Mrs.  Hatt  after  those  two  years, 
he  vv^ould  have  discovered  that  he  and  she  had  grown 
quite  different  and  new  persons.  This,  theoretically,  he 
ought  to  have  done.  He  spent  the  night  after  the 
English  Mail  came  in  rather  severe  pain. 

Next  morning,  Dicky  Hatt  felt  disinclined  to  work.  He 
argued  that  he  had  missed  the  pleasure  of  youth.  He 
was  tired,  and  he  had  tasted  all  the  sorrow  in  life  before 
three-and-twenty.  His  Honour  was  gone — that  was  the 
man;  and  now  he,  too,  would  go  to  the  Devil — that  was 
the  boy  in  him.  So  he  put  his  head  down  on  the  green 
oil-cloth  table-cover,  and  wept  before  resigning  his  post 
and  all  it  offered. 

But  the  reward  of  his  services  came.  He  was  given 
three  days  to  reconsider  himself,  and  the  Head  f  the 
establishment,  after  some  telegraphings,  said  that  it 
was  a  most  unusual  step,  but,  in  view  of  the  abiHty  that 
Mr.  Hatt  had  displayed  at  such  and  such  a  time,  at  oUch 
and  such  junctures,  he  was  in  a  position  to  offer  him  an 
infinitely  superior  post — first  on  probation  and  later,  in 


IN  THE  PRIDE  OF  HIS  YOUTH  217 

the  natural  course  of  things,  on  confirmation.  *And 
how  much  does  the  post  carry? '  said  Dicky.  *  Six  hun- 
dred and  fifty  rupees/  said  the  Head  slowly,  expecting  to 
see  the  young  man  sink  with  gratitude  and  joy. 

And  it  came  then !  The  seven-hundred-rupee  passage, 
and  enough  to  have  saved  the  wife,  and  the  little  son, 
and  to  have  allowed  of  assured  and  open  marriage, 
came  then.  Dicky  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter — 
laughter  he  could  not  check — nasty,  jangling  merriment 
that  seemed  as  if  it  would  go  on  for  ever.  When  he  had 
recovered  himself  he  said,  quite  seriously,  *I'm  tired  of 
work.  I'm  an  old  man  now.  It's  about  time  I  retired. 
And  I  will.' 

*The  boy's  mad!'  said  the  Head. 

I  think  he  was  right;  but  Dicky  Hatt  never  reap- 
peared to  settle  the  question. 


PIG 

Go,  stalk  the  red  deer  o*er  the  heather, 

Ride,  follow  the  fox  if  you  can! 
But,  for  pleasure  and  profit  together, 

Allow  me  the  hunting  of  Man, — 
The  chase  of  the  Human,  the  search  for  the  Soul 

To  its  ruin, — the  hunting  of  Man. 

— The  Old  Shikarri. 

The  difference  began  in  the  matter  of  a  horse,  with 
a  twist  in  his  temper,  whom  Pinecoffin  sold  to  Nafferton 
and  by  whom  Nafferton  was  nearly  slain.  There  may 
have  been  other  causes  of  offence,  but  the  horse  was  the 
official  stalldng-horse.  Nafferton  was  very  angry;  but 
Pinecofhn  laughed,  and  said  that  he  had  never  guar- 
anteed the  beast's  manners.  Nafferton  laughed  too, 
though  he  vowed  that  he  would  write  off  his  fall  against 
Pinecofhn  if  he  waited  five  years.  Now,  a  Dalesman 
from  beyond  Skip  ton  will  forgive  an  injury  when  the 
Strid  lets  a  man  Hve;  but  a  South  Devon  man  is  as  soft 
as  a  Dartmoor  bog.  You  can  see  from  their  names  that 
Nafferton  had  the  race-advantage  of  Pinecoffin.  He 
was  a  peculiar  man,  and  his  notions  of  humour  were 
cruel.  He  taught  me  a  new  and  fascinating  form  of 
shikar.  He  hounded  Pinecoffin  from  Mithankot  to  Jag- 
adri,  and  from  Gurgaon  to  Abbottabad — up  and  across 
the  Punjab,  a  large  Province,  and  in  places  remarkably 
dry.    He  said  that  he  had  no  intention  of  allowing  As- 

218 


JPIG  219 

sistant  Commissioners  to  'sell  him  pups,'  in  the  shape 
of  ramping,  screaming  countrybreds,  without  making 
their  lives  a  burden  to  them. 

Most  Assistant  Commissioners  develop  a  bent  for 
some  special  work  after  their  first  hot  weather  in  the 
country.  The  boys  with  digestions  hope  to  write  their 
names  large  on  the  Frontier,  and  struggle  for  dreary 
places  like  Bannu  and  Kohat.  The  biHous  ones  climb 
into  the  Secretariat.  Which  is  very  bad  for  the  Kver. 
Others  are  bitten  with  a  mania  for  District  work,  Ghuz- 
nivide  coins  or  Persian  poetry;  while  some,  who  come  of 
farmers'  stock,  find  that  the  smell  of  the  Earth  after  the 
Rains  gets  into  their  blood,  and  calls  them  to  'develop 
the  resources  of  the  Province.'  These  men  are  en- 
thusiasts. Pinecofiin  belonged  to  their  class.  He  knew 
a  great  many  facts  bearing  on  the  cost  of  bullocks  and 
temporary  wells,  and  opium-scrapers,  and  what  hap- 
pens if  you  burn  too  much  rubbish  on  a  field  in  the  hope 
of  enriching  used-up  soil.  All  the  Pinecofiins  come  of  a 
landholding  breed,  and  so  the  land  only  took  back  her 
own  again.  Unfortunately — most  unfortunately  for 
Pinecoffin — he  was  a  CiviHan,  as  well  as  a  farmer. 
Nafferton  watched  him,  and  thought  about  the  horse. 
Nafferton  said,  '  See  me  chase  that  boy  till  he  drops ! '  I 
said,  'You  can't  get  your  knife  into  an  Assistant  Com- 
missioner.' Nafferton  told  me  that  I  did  not  under- 
stand the  administration  of  the  Province. 

Our  Government  is  rather  peculiar.  It  gushes  on 
the  agricultural  and  general  information  side,  and  will 
supply  a  moderately  resj>ectable  man  with  all  sorts  of 
'economic  statistics,'  if  he  speaks  to  it  prettily.  For 
instance,   you   are  interested  in  gold-washing  in   the 


220  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

sands  of  the  Sutlej.  You  pull  the  string,  and  find  that 
it  wakes  up  half  a  dozen  Departments,  and  finally 
communicates,  say,  with  a  friend  of  yours  in  the  Tele- 
graph, who  once  wrote  some  notes  on  the  customs  of 
the  gold-washers  when  he  was  on  construction-work 
in  their  part  of  the  Empire.  He  may  or  may  not  be 
pleased  at  being  ordered  to  write  out  everything  he 
knows  for  your  benefit.  This  depends  on  his  tempera- 
ment. The  bigger  man  you  are,  the  more  information 
and  the  greater  trouble  can  you  raise. 

Nafferton  was  not  a  big  man;  but  he  had  the  repu- 
tation of  being  very  ^earnest.'  An  'earnest'  man  can 
do  much  with  a  Government.  There  was  an  earnest 
man  once  who  nearly  wrecked  .  .  .  but  all  India 
knows  that  story.  I  am  not  sure  what  real  *  earnest- 
ness' is.  A  very  fair  imitation  can  be  manufactured 
by  neglecting  to  dress  decently,  by  mooning  about  in 
a  dreary,  misty  sort  of  a  way,  by  taking  ofiice-work 
home,  after  staying  in  office  till  seven,  and  by  receiv- 
ing crowds  of  native  gentlemen  on  Sundays.  That  is 
one  sort  of  'earnestness.' 

Nafferton  cast  about  for  a  peg  whereon  to  hang  his. 
earnestness,  and  for  a  string  that  would  conmiunicate 
with  Pinecoffin.  He  found  both.  They  were  Pig. 
Nafferton  became  an  earnest  inquirer  after  Pig.  He  in- 
formed the  Government  that  he  had  a  scheme  whereby 
a  very  large  percentage  of  the  British  Army  in  India 
could  be  fed,  at  a  very  large  savings,  on  Pig.  Then  he 
hinted  that  Pinecoffin  might  supply  him  with  the 
'varied  information  necessary  to  the  proper  inception 
of  the  scheme.'  So  the  Government  wrote  on  the  back 
of  the  letter,  'Instruct  Mr.  Pinecoffin  to  furnish  Mr. 


PIG  221 

Nafferton  with  any  information  in  his  power.  Govern- 
ment is  very  prone  to  writing  things  on  the  backs  of 
letters  which,  later,  lead  to  sore  trouble. 

Nafferton  had  not  the  faintest  interest  in  Pig,  but 
he  knew  that  Pinecoffin  would  flounce  into  the  trap. 
Pinecoffin  was  delighted  at  being  consulted  about  Pig, 
The  Indian  Pig  is  not  exactly  an  important  factor  in 
agricultural  life;  but  Nafferton  explained  to  Pinecoffin 
that  there  was  room  for  improvement,  and  corresponded 
directly  with  that  young  man. 

You  may  think  that  there  is  not  much  to  be  evolved 
from  Pig.  It  all  depends  how  you  set  to  work.  Pine- 
coffin being  a  Civilian  and  wishing  to  do  things  thor- 
oughly, began  with  an  essay  on  the  Primitive  Pig, 
the  Mythology  of  the  Pig,  and  the  Dravidian  Pig. 
Nafferton  filed  that  information— twenty-seven  fools- 
cap sheets — and  desired  to  know  about  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  Pig  in  the  Punjab,  and  how  it  stood  the 
Plains  in  the  hot  weather.  From  this  point  onwards, 
remember  that  I  am  giving  you  only  the  barest  outUnes 
of  the  affair — the  guy-ropes,  as  it  were,  of  the  hideous 
web  that  Nafferton  spun  round  Pinecoffin. 

Pinecoffin  made  a  coloured  Pig-population  map,  and 
collected  observations  on  the  comparative  longevity  of 
Pig  (a)  in  the  sub-montane  tracts  of  the  Himalayas 
and  (b)  in  the  Rechna  Doab.  Nafferton  filed  that,  and 
asked  what  sort  of  people  looked  after  Pig.  This 
started  an  ethnological  excursus  on  swineherds,  and 
drew  from  Pinecoffin  long  tables  showing  the  propor- 
tion per  thousand  of  that  caste  in  the  Derajat.  Naffer- 
ton filed  the  bundle,  and  explained  that  the  figures 
which    he   wanted   referred   to   the   Cis-Sutlej   states, 


822  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

where  he  understood  that  Pigs  were  very  fine  and 
large,  and  where  he  proposed  to  start  a  Piggery.  By 
this  time,  Government  had  quite  forgotten  their  in- 
structions to  Mr.  Pinecoffin.  They  were  hke  the 
gentlemen,  in  Keats'  poem,  who  turned  well-oiled  wheels 
to  skin  other  people.  But  Pinecoffin  was  just  entering 
into  the  spirit  of  the  Pig-hunt;  as  Nafferton  well  knew 
he  would  do.  He  had  a  fair  amount  of  work  of  his 
own  to  clear  away;  but  he  sat  up  of  nights  reducing  Pig 
to  five  places  of  decimals  for  the  honour  of  his  Service. 
He  was  not  going  to  appear  ignorant  of  so  easy  a  subject 
as  Pig. 

Then  Government  sent  him  on  special  duty  to  Kohat. 
lo  'inquire  into'  the  big,  seven-foot,  iron-shod  spade'^ 
of  that  District.  People  had  been  killing  each  other 
with  those  peaceful  tools;  and  Government  wished  to 
know  'whether  a  modified  form  of  agricultural  imple- 
ment could  not,  tentatively  and  as  a  temporary  measure, 
be  introduced  among  the  agricultural  population  without 
needlessly  or  unduly  exacerbating  the  existing  religious 
sentiments  of  the  peasantry.' 

Between  those  spades  and  Nafferton's  Pig,  Pinecoffin 
was  rather  heavily  burdened. 

Nafferton  now  began  to  take  up  '{a)  The  food- 
supply  of  the  indigenous  Pig,  Avith  a  view  to  the  im- 
provement of  its  capacities  as  a  flesh-former,  (b)  The 
acclimatisation  of  the  exotic  Pig,  maintaining  its  dis- 
tinctive peculiarities.'  Pinecoffin  replied  exhaustively 
that  the  exotic  Pig  would  become  m^erged  in  the  in- 
digenous type;  and  quoted  horse-breeding  statistics  to 
prove  this.  The  side  issue  was  debated,  at  great  length 
on  Pinecoffin's  side,  till  Nafferton  owned  that  he  had 


PIG  223 

been  in  the  wrong,  and  moved  the  previous  question. 
When  Pinecoffin  had  quite  written  himself  out  about 
flesh-formers,  and  fibrins,  and  glucose  and  the  nitro- 
genous constituents  of  maize  and  lucerne,  Nafferton 
raised  the  question  of  expense.  By  this  time  Pinecoffin, 
who  had  been  transferred  from  Kohat,  had  developed  a 
Pig  theory  of  his  own,  which  he  stated  in  thirty-three 
foho  pages — all  carefully  filed  by  Nafferton.  Who 
asked  for  more. 

These  things  covered  ten  months,  and  Pinecoffin's 
interest  in  the  potential  Piggery  seemed  to  die  down 
after  he  had  stated  his  own  views.  But  Nafferton 
bombarded  him  with  letters  on  'the  Imperial  aspect  of 
the  scheme,  as  tending  to  officialise  the  sale  of  pork, 
and  thereby  calculated  to  give  offence  to  the  Moham- 
medan population  of  Upper  India.'  He  guessed  that 
Pinecoffin  would  want  some  broad,  free-hand  work 
after  his  niggfing,  decimal  details.  Pinecoffin  handled 
the  latest  development  of  the  case  in  masterly  style, 
and  proved  that  no  ^popular  ebullition  of  excitement 
was  to  be  apprehended.'  Nafferton  said  that  there 
was  nothing  hke  Civihan  insight  in  matters  of  this 
kind,  and  lured  him  up  a  by-path — Hhe  possible  profits 
to  accrue  to  the  Government  from  the  sale  of  hog- 
bristles.'  There  is  an  extensive  literature  of  hog- 
bristles,  and  the  shoe,  brush,  and  colourman's  trades 
recognise  more  varieties  of  bristles  than  you  would 
think  possible.  After  Pinecoffin  had  wondered  a  little 
at  Nafferton's  rage  for  information,  he  sent  back  a 
monograph,  fifty-one  pages,  on  'Products  of  the  Pig.' 
This  led  him,  under  Nafferton's  tender  handfing,  straight 
to  the  Cawnporc  factories,  the  trade  in  hog-skin  for 


«24  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

saddles — and  thence  to  the  tanners.  Pinecoffin  wrote 
that  pomegranate-seed  was  the  best  cure  for  hog-skin, 
and  suggested — for  the  past  fourteen  months  had  wearied 
him — that  Nafferton  should  'raise  his  pigs  before  he 
tanned  them.' 

Nafferton  went  back  to  the  second  section  of  his 
fifth  question.  How  could  the  exotic  Pig  be  brought 
to  give  as  much  pork  as  it  did  in  the  West  and  yet 
'assume  the  essentially  hirsute  characteristics  of  its 
Oriental  congener'?  Pinecoffin  felt  dazed,  for  he  had 
forgotten  what  he  had  written  sixteen  months  before, 
and  fancied  that  he  was  about  to  reopen  the  entire 
question.  He  was  too  far  involved  in  the  hideous 
tangle  to  retreat,  and,  in  a  weak  moment,  he  wrote, 
'Consult  my  first  letter.'  Which  related  to  the  Dravi- 
dian  Pig.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Pinecoffin  had  still  to 
reach  the  acclimatisation  stage;  having  gone  off  on  a 
side  issue  on  the  merging  of  types. 

Then  Nafferton  really  unmasked  his  batteries!  He 
complained  to  the  Government,  in  stately  language,  of 
'the  paucity  of  help  accorded  to  me  in  my  earnest  at- 
tempts to  start  a  potentially  remunerative  industry,  and 
the  flippancy  with  which  my  requests  for  information  are 
treated  by  a  gentleman  whose  pseudo-scholarly  attain- 
ments should  at  least  have  taught  him  the  primary 
differences  between  the  Dravidian  and  the  Berkshire 
variety  of  the  genus  Sus.  If  I  am  to  understand  that  the 
letter  to  which  he  refers  me,  contains  his  serious  views  on 
the  acclimatisation  of  a  valuable,  though  possibly  un- 
cleanly, animal,  I  am  reluctantly  compelled  to  believe,' 
etc.  etc. 

There  was  a  new  man  at  the  head  of  the  Department  of 


PIG  225 

Castigation.  The  wretched  Pinecoffin  was  told  that  the 
Service  was  made  for  the  Country,  and  not  the  Country 
for  the  Service,  and  that  he  had  better  begm  to  supply 
information  about  Pigs. 

Pinecoffin  answered  insanely  that  he  had  written  every- 
thing that  could  be  written  about  Pig,  and  that  some 
furlough  was  due  to  him. 

Nafferton  got  a  copy  of  that  letter,  and  sent  it,  with  the 
essay  on  the  Dravidian  Pig,  to  a  down-country  paper 
which  printed  both  in  full.  The  essay  was  rather  high- 
flown;  but  if  the  Editor  had  seen  the  stacks  of  paper,  in 
Pinecofhn's  handwriting,  on  Nafferton's  table,  he  would 
not  have  been  so  sarcastic  about  the  '  nebulous  discursive- 
ness and  blatant  seK-sufficiency  of  the  modern  Competi- 
tion-wallah,  and  his  utter  mability  to  grasp  the  practical 
issues  of  a  practical  question.'  Many  friends  cut  out 
these  remarks  and  sent  them  to  Pinecofhn. 

I  have  already  stated  that  Pinecoffin  came  of  a  soft 
stock.  This  last  stroke  frightened  and  shook  him.  He 
could  not  imderstand  it;  but  he  felt  that  he  had  been, 
somehow,  shamelessly  betrayed  by  Nafferton.  He 
realised  that  he  had  wrapped  himself  up  in  the  Pigskin 
without  need,  and  that  he  could  not  well  set  himself  right 
with  his  Government.  All  his  acquaintances  asked  after 
his  'nebulous  discursiveness'  or  his  'blatant  self-suffi- 
ciency,' and  this  made  him  miserable. 

He  took  a  train  and  went  to  Nafferton,  whom  he  had 
not  seen  since  the  Pig  business  began.  He  also  took  the 
cutting  from  the  paper,  and  blustered  feebly  and  called 
Nafferton  names,  and  then  died  down  to  a  watery,  weak 
protest  of  the '  I-say-it's-too-bad-you-know'  order. 

Nafferton  was  very  sympathetic. 


226  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

'I'm  afraid  I've  given  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble, 
haven't  I? '  said  he. 

*  Trouble!'  whimpered  Pinecoffin;  'I  don't  mind  the 
trouble  so  much,  though  that  was  bad  enough,  but  what  I 
resent  is  this  showing  up  in  print.  It  will  stick  to  me  like 
a  burr  all  through  my  service.  And  I  did  do  my  best  for 
your  interminable  swine.  It's  too  bad  of  you — on  my 
soul  it  is!' 

'I  don't  know,'  said  Nafferton.  'Have  you  ever  been 
stuck  with  a  horse?  It  isn't  the  money  I  mind,  though 
that  is  bad  enough,  but  what  I  resent  is  the  chaff  that 
follows,  especially  from  the  boy  who  stuck  me.  But  I 
think  we'll  cry  quits  now.' 

Pinecojfin  found  nothing  to  say  save  bad  words;  and 
Nafferton  smiled  ever  so  sweetly,  and  asked  him  to 
dinner.  ' ' 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  WHITE  HUSSARS 

It  was  not  in  the  open  fight 

We  threw  away  the  sword, 
But  in  the  lonely  watching 

In  the  darkness  by  the  ford. 
The  waters  lapped,  the  night-wind  blew, 
Full-armed  the  Fear  was  born  and  grew, 
And  we  were  flying  ere  we  knew 

From  panic  in  the  night. 

— Beoni  Bar. 

Some  people  hold  that  an  English  Cavalry  regiment  can- 
not run.  This  is  a  mistake.  I  have  seen  four  hundred 
and  thirty-seven  sabres  flying  over  the  face  of  the  country 
in  abject  terror — have  seen  the  best  Regiment  that  ever 
drew  bridle  wiped  off  the  Army  List  for  the  space  of  two 
hours.  If  you  repeat  this  tale  to  the  White  Hussars 
they  will,  in  all  probability,  treat  you  severely.  They 
are  not  proud  of  the  incident. 

You  may  know  the  White  Hussars  by  their  'side/ 
which  is  greater  than  that  of  all  the  Cavalry  Regiments 
on  the  roster.  If  this  is  not  a  sufficient  mark,  you  may 
know  them  by  their  old  brandy.  It  has  been  sixty  years 
in  the  Mess  and  is  worth  going  far  to  taste.  Ask  for  the 
'McGaire'  old  brandy,  and  see  that  you  get  it.  If  the 
Mess  Sergeant  thinks  that  you  are  uneducated,  and  that 
the  genuine  article  wiU  be  lost  on  you,  he  will  treat  you 
accordingly.    He  is  a  good  man.    But,  when  you  are  at 

227 


228  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

Mess,  you  must  never  talk  to  your  hosts  about  forced 
marches  or  long-distance  rides.  The  Mess  are  very 
sensitive;  and,  if  they  think  that  you  are  laughing  at 
them,  will  tell  you  so. 

As  the  White  Hussars  say,  it  was  all  the  Colonel's  fault. 
He  was  a  new  man,  and  he  ought  never  to  have  taken  the 
Command.  He  said  that  the  Regiment  was  not  smart 
enough.  This  to  the  White  Hussars,  who  knew  that  they 
could  walk  round  any  Horse  and  through  any  Guns  and 
over  any  Foot  on  the  face  of  the  earth!  That  insult  was 
the  first  cause  of  offence. 

Then  the  Colonel  cast  the  Dnma-Horse — the  Drum- 
Horse  of  the  White  Hussars!  Perhaps  you  do  not  see 
what  an  unspeakable  crime  he  had  committed.  I  will  try 
to  make  it  clear.  The  soul  of  the  Regiment  lives  in  the 
Drum-Horse  who  carries  the  silver  kettle-drums.  He  is 
nearly  always  a  big  piebald  Waler.  That  is  a  point  of 
honour;  and  a  Regiment  will  spend  anything  you  please 
on  a  piebald.  He  is  beyond  the  ordinary  laws  of  casting. 
His  work  is  very  light,  and  he  only  manoeuvres  at  a  foot- 
pace wherefore,  so  long  as  he  can  step  out  and  look 
handsome,  his  wellbeing  is  assured.  He  knows  more 
about  the  Regiment  than  the  Adjutant,  and  could  not 
make  a  mistake  if  he  tried. 

The  Drum-Horse  of  the  White  Hussars  was  only 
eighteen  years  old,  and  perfectly  equal  to  his  duties.  He 
had  at  least  six  years'  more  work  in  him,  and  carried  him- 
seK  with  all  the  pomp  and  dignity  of  a  Drum-Major  of 
the  Guards.     The  Regiment  had  paid  Rs.  1200  for  him. 

But  the  Colonel  said  that  he  must  go,  and  he  was  cast 
in  due  form  and  replaced  by  a  washy,  bay  beast,  as  ugly 
as  ?J.  mule,  with  a  ewe-neck,  rat-tail,  and  cow-hocks.   The 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  WHITE  HUSSARS  229 

Drummer  detested  that  animal,  and  the  best  of  the  Band- 
horses  put  back  their  ears  and  showed  the  whites  of  their 
eyes  at  the  very  sight  of  him.  They  knew  him  for  an  up- 
start and  no  gentleman.  I  fancy  that  the  Colonel's 
ideas  of  smartness  extended  to  the  Band,  and  that  he 
wanted  to  make  it  take  part  in  the  regular  parade  move- 
ments. A  Cavalry  Band  is  a  sacred  thing.  It  only  turns 
out  for  Commanding  Ofhcers'  parades,  and  the  Band 
Master  is  one  degree  more  important  than  the  Colonel. 
He  is  a  High  Priest  and  the  '  Keel  Row '  is  his  holy  song. 
The  'Keel  Row'  is  the  Cavalry  Trot;  and  the  man  who 
has  never  heard  that  tune  rising  above  the  rattle  of  the 
Regiment  going  past  the  saluting-base,  has  something  yet 
to  understand. 

WTien  the  Colonel  cast  the  Drum-Horse  of  the  White 
Hussars,  there  was  nearly  a  mutiny. 

The  officers  were  angry,  the  Regiment  were  furious, 
and  the  Bandsmen  swore— like  troopers.  The  Drum- 
Horse  was  going  to  be  put  up  to  auction — public  auction 
— to  be  bought,  perhaps,  by  a  Parsee  and  put  into  a  cart! 
It  was  worse  than  exposing  the  inner  Hfe  of  the  Regiment 
to  the  whole  world,  or  selling  the  Mess  Plate  to  a  Jew — 
a  Black  Jew. 

The  Colonel  was  a  mean  man  and  a  bully.  He  knew 
what  the  Regiment  thought  about  his  action;  and,  wher 
the  troopers  offered  to  buy  the  Drum-Horse,  he  said  that 
their  offer  was  mutinous  and  forbidden  by  the  Regula- 
tions. 

But  one  of  the  Subalterns — Hogan-Yale.  an  Irishman 
— bought  the  Drum-Horse  for  Rs.  160  at  the  sale:  and  the 
Colonel  was  wroth.  Yale  professed  repentance — he  was 
imnaturally  submissive — and  said  that,  as  he  had  only 


230  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

made  the  purchase  to  save  the  horse  from  possible  ill- 
treatment  and  starvation,  he  would  now  shoot  him  and 
end  the  business.  This  appeared  to  soothe  the  Colonel, 
for  he  wanted  the  Drum-Horse  disposed  of.  He  felt  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  could  not  of  course  acknowl- 
edge it.  Meantime,  the  presence  of  the  Drum-Horse  was 
an  annoyance  to  him. 

Yale  took  to  himself  a  glass  of  the  old  brandy,  three 
cheroots,  and  his  friend  Martyn;  and  they  all  left  the 
Mess  together.  Yale  and  Martyn  conferred  for  two 
hours  in  Yale's  quarters;  but  only  the  bull- terrier  who 
keeps  watch  over  Yale's  boot-trees  knows  what  they  said. 
A  horse,  hooded  and  sheeted  to  his  ears,  left  Yale*s 
stables  and  was  taken,  very  unwillingly,  into  the  Civil 
Lines.  Yale's  groom  went  with  him.  Two  men  broke 
into  the  Regimental  Theatre  and  took  several  paint-pots 
and  some  large  scenery-brushes.  Then  night  fell  over 
the  cantonments,  and  there  was  a  noise  as  of  a  horse  kick- 
ing his  loose-box  to  pieces  in  Yale's  stables.  Yale  had  a 
big,  old,  white  Waler  trap-horse. 

The  next  day  was  a  Thursday,  and  the  men,  hearing 
that  Yale  was  going  to  shoot  the  Drum-Horse  in  the 
evening,  determined  to  give  the  beast  a  regular  regimental 
funeral — a  finer  one  than  they  would  have  given  the 
Colonel  had  he  died  just  then.  They  got  a  bullock-cart 
and  some  sacking,  and  mounds  and  mounds  of  roses,  and 
the  body,  under  sacking,  was  carried  out  to  the  place 
where  the  anthrax  cases  were  cremated;  two- thirds  of  the 
Regiment  following.  There  was  no  Band,  but  they  aU 
sang  'The  Place  where  the  old  Horse  died'  as  something 
respectful  and  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  When  the 
corpse  was  dumped  into  the  grave  and  the  men  began 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  WHITE  HUSSARS  231 

throwing  down  armfuls  of  roses  to  cover  it,  the  Farrier- 
Sergeant  ripped  out  an  oath  and  said  aloud,  ^Why,  it 
ain't  the  Drum-Horse  any  more  than  it's  me!'  The 
Troop-Sergeant-Majors  asked  him  whether  he  had  left 
his  head  in  the  Canteen.  The  Farrier-Sergeant  said  that 
he  knew  the  Drum-Horse's  feet  as  well  as  he  knew  his 
own;  but  he  was  silenced  when  he  saw  the  regimental 
number  burnt  in  on  the  poor  stiff,  upturned  near-fore. 

Thus  was  the  Drum-Horse  of  the  White  Hussars  buried; 
the  Farrier-Sergeant  grumbling.  The  sacking  that 
covered  the  corpse  was  smeared  in  places  with  black  paint; 
and  the  Farrier-Sergeant  drew  attention  to  this  fact.  But 
the  Troop-Sergeant-Major  of  E  Troop  kicked  him  se- 
verely on  the  shin,  and  told  him  that  he  was  undoubtedly 
drunk. 

On  the  Monday  following  the  burial,  the  Colonel 
sought  revenge  on  the  White  Hussars.  Unfortunately, 
being  at  that  time  temporarily  in  Conmiand  of  the 
Station,  he  ordered  a  Brigade  field-day.  He  said  that  he 
wished  to  make  the  Regiment '  sweat  for  their  damned  in- 
solence,' and  he  carried  out  his  notion  thoroughly.  That 
Monday  was  one  of  the  hardest  days  in  the  memory  of  the 
White  Hussars.  They  were  thrown  against  a  skeleton- 
enemy,  and  pushed  forward,  and  withdrawn,  and  dis- 
mounted, and  'scientifically  handled'  in  every  possible 
fashion  over  the  dusty  country,  till  they  sweated  pro- 
fusely. Their  only  amusement  came  late  in  the  day 
when  they  fell  upon  the  battery  of  Horse  Artillery  and 
chased  it  for  two  miles.  This  was  a  personal  question,  and 
most  of  the  troopers  had  money  on  the  event;  the  Gun- 
ners saying  openly  that  they  had  the  legs  of  the  White 
Haissar;s.    They  were  wrong.    A  march-past  concluded 


«32  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

the  campaign,  and  when  the  Regunent  got  back  to  their 
Lines,  the  men  were  coated  with  dirt  from  spur  to  chin- 
strap. 

The  White  Hussars  have  one  great  and  peculiar 
privilege.     They  won  it  at  Fontenoy,  I  think. 

Many  Regiments  possess  special  rights  such  as  wear- 
ing collars  with  undress  uniform,  or  a  bow  of  riband 
between  the  shoulders,  or  red  and  white  roses  in  their 
helmets  on  certain  days  of  the  year.  Some  rights  are 
connected  with  regimental  saints,  and  some  with  regi- 
mental successes.  All  are  valued  highly;  but  none  so 
highly  as  the  right  of  the  White  Hussars  to  have  the 
Band  playing  when  their  horses  are  being  watered  in  the 
Lines.  Only  one  tune  is  played,  and  that  tune  never 
varies.  I  don't  know  its  real  name,  but  the  \\niite  Hus- 
sars call  it,  'Take  me  to  London  again.'  It  sounds 
very  pretty.  The  Regiment  would  sooner  be  struck  off 
the  roster  than  forego  their  distinction. 

After  the  'dismiss'  was  sounded,  the  officers  rode 
off  home  to  prepare  for  stables;  and  the  men  filed  into 
the  lines  riding  easy.  That  is  to  say,  they  opened  their 
tight  buttons,  shifted  their  helmets,  and  began  to  joke  or 
to  swear  as  the  humour  took  them;  the  more  careful 
slipping  off  and  easing  girths  and  curbs.  A  good  trooper 
values  his  mount  exactly  as  much  as  he  values  himself, 
and  believes,  or  should  believe,  that  the  two  together 
are  irresistible  where  women  or  men,  girls  or  guns,  are 
concerned. 

Then  the  Orderly-Officer  gave  the  order,  'Water 
horses,'  and  the  Regiment  loafed  off  to  the  squadron- 
troughs  which  were  in  rear  of  the  stables  and  between 
these  and  the  barracks.    There  were  four  huge  troughs 


i  THE  ROOT  OF  THE  WHITE  HUSSARS  233 

one  for  each  squadron,  arranged  en  echelon^  so  that  the 
whole  Regiment  could  water  in  ten  minutes  if  it  liked. 
But  it  lingered  for  seventeen,  as  a  rule,  while  the  Band 
played. 

The  Band  struck  up  as  the  squadrons  filed  off  to  the 
troughs,  and  the  men  slipped  their  feet  out  of  the  stirrups 
and  chaffed  each  other.  The  sun  was  just  setting  in  a 
big,  hot  bed  of  red  cloud,  and  the  road  to  the  Civil  Lines 
seemed  to  run  straight  into  the  sun's  eye.  There  was  a 
little  dot  on  the  road.  It  grew  and  grew  till  it  showed 
as  a  horse,  with  a  sort  of  gridiron-thing  on  his  back. 
The  red  cloud  glared  through  the  bars  of  the  gridiron. 
Some  of  the  troopers  shaded  their  eyes  with  their  hands 
and  said— 'What  the  mischief  'as  that  there  'orse  got 
on  'im?' 

In  another  minute  they  heard  a  neigh  that  every 
soul — ^horse  and  man — in  the  Regiment  knew,  and 
saw,  heading  straight  towards  the  Band,  the  dead  Drum- 
Horse  of  the  White  Hussars! 

On  his  withers  banged  and  bumped  the  kettle-drimis 
draped  in  crape,  and  on  his  back,  very  stiff  and  soldierly, 
sat  a  bareheaded  skeleton. 

The  Band  stopped  playing,  and,  for  a  moment,  there 
was  a  hush. 

Then  some  one  in  E  Troop — men  said  it  was  the 
Troop-Sergeant-Major — swung  his  horse  round  and 
yelled.  No  one  can  account  exactly  for  what  happened 
afterwards;  but  it  seems  that,  at  least,  one  man  in 
each  troop  set  an  example  of  panic,  and  the  rest  followed 
like  sheep.  The  horses  that  had  barely  put  their  muz- 
zles into  the  troughs  reared  and  capered;  but  as  soon  as 
the  Band  broke,  which  it  did  when  the  ghost  of  the 


234  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Drum-Horse  was  about  a  furlong  distant,  all  hooves 
followed  suit,  and  the  clatter  of  the  stampede — quite 
different  from  the  orderly  throb  and  roar  of  a  movement 
on  parade,  or  the  rough  horse-play  of  watering  in  camp 
— made  them  only  more  terrified.  They  felt  that  the 
men  on  their  backs  were  afraid  of  something.  When 
horses  once  know  that,  all  is  over  except  the  butchery. 

Troop  after  troop  turned  from  the  troughs  and  ran 
— anywhere  and  everywhere — like  spilt  quicksilver. 
It  was  a  most  extraordinary  spectacle,  for  men  and 
horses  were  in  all  stages  of  easiness,  and  the  carbine- 
buckets  flopping  against  their  sides  urged  the  horses  on. 
Men  were  shouting  and  cursing,  and  trying  to  pull  clear 
of  the  Band  which  was  being  chased  by  the  Drum- 
Horse,  whose  rider  had  fallen  forward  and  seemed  to  be 
spurring  for  a  wager. 

The  Colonel  had  gone  over  to  the  Mess  for  a  drink. 
Most  of  the  officers  were  with  him,  and  the  Subaltern 
of  the  Day  was  preparing  to  go  down  to  the  Lines,  and 
receive  the  watering  reports  from  the  Troop-Sergeant- 
Majors.  When  'Take  me  to  London  again'  stopped, 
after  twenty  bars,  every  one  in  the  Mess  said,  'What 
on  earth  has  happened? '  A  minute  later,  they  heard  un- 
military  noises,  and  saw,  far  across  the  plain,  the  White 
Hussars  scattered,  and  broken,  and  flying. 

The  Colonel  was  speechless  with  rage,  for  he  thought 
that  the  Regiment  had  risen  against  him  or  was  unani- 
mously drunk.  The  Band,  a  disorganised  mob,  tore 
past,  and  at  its  heels  laboured  the  Drum-Horse — the 
dead  and  buried  Drum-Horse — with  the  jolting,  clat- 
tering skeleton.  Hogan-Yale  whispered  softly  to  Mar- 
tyn — *No  wire  wiU  stand  that  treatment,'  and  the  Band, 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  WHITE  HUSSARS  23S 

which  had  doubled  like  a  hare,  came  back  again.  But 
the  rest  of  the  Regiment  was  gone,  was  rioting  all  over 
the  Province,  for  the  dusk  had  shut  in  and  each  man  was 
howling  to  his  neighbour  that  the  Drmn-Horse  was  on 
his  flank.  Troop-horses  are  far  too  tenderly  treated  as  a 
rule.  They  can,  on  emergencies,  do  a  great  deal,  even 
with  seventeen  stone  on  their  backs.  As  the  troopers 
found  out. 

How  long  this  panic  lasted  I  cannot  say.  I  believe 
that  when  the  moon  rose  the  men  saw  they  had  nothing 
to  fear,  and,  by  twos  and  threes  and  half-troops,  crept 
back  into  Cantonments  very  much  ashamed  of  them- 
selves. Meantime,  the  Drum-Horse,  disgusted  at  hi: 
treatment  by  old  friends,  pulled  up,  wheeled  round,  anu 
trotted  up  to  the  Mess  verandah-steps  for  bread.  No 
one  liked  to  run;  but  no  one  cared  to  go  forward  till 
the  Colonel  made  a  movement  and  laid  hold  of  the 
skeleton's  foot.  The  Band  had  halted  some  distance 
away,  and  now  came  back  slowly.  The  Colonel  called 
it,  individually  and  collectively,  every  evil  name  that 
occurred  to  him  at  the  time;  for  he  had  set  his  hand 
on  the  bosom  of  the  Drum-Horse  and  found  flesh  and 
blood.  Then  he  beat  the  kettle-drums  with  his  clenched 
fist,  and  discovered  that  they  were  but  made  of  silvered 
paper  and  bamboo.  Next,  still  swearing,  he  tried  to 
drag  the  skeleton  out  of  the  saddle,  but  found  that  it 
had  been  wired  into  the  cantle.  The  sight  of  the 
Colonel,  with  his  arms  round  the  skeleton's  pelvis  and 
his  knee  in  the  old  Drum-Horse's  stomach,  was  striking. 
Not  to  say  amusing.  He  worried  the  thing  off  in  a 
minute  or  two,  and  threw  it  down  on  the  ground,  saying 
to   the  Band— 'Here,   you   curs,   that's  what  you're 


356  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS , 

afraid  of.'  The  skeleton  did  not  look  pretty  in  the 
twilight.  The  Band-Sergeant  seemed  to  recognise  it, 
for  he  began  to  chuckle  and  choke.  'Shall  I  take  it 
away,  sir?'  said  the  Band-Sergeant.  'Yes,'  said  the 
Colonel, '  take  it  to  Hell,  and  ride  there  yourselves!' 

The  Band-Sergeant  saluted,  hoisted  the  skeleton 
across  his  saddle-bow,  and  led  ojff  to  the  stables.  Then 
the  Colonel  began  to  make  inquiries  for  the  rest  of  the 
Regiment,  and  the  language  he  used  was  wonderful. 
He  would  disband  the  Regiment — he  would  court-martial 
every  soul  in  it — he  would  not  command  such  a  set  of 
rabble,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  As  the  men  dropped  in, 
his  language  grew  wilder,  until  at  last  it  exceeded  the 
utmost  limits  of  free  speech  allowed  even  to  a  Colonel  of 
Horse. 

Martyn  took  Hogan-Yale  aside  and  suggested  com- 
pulsory retirement  from  the  Service  as  a  necessity  when 
all  was  discovered.  Martyn  was  the  weaker  man  of 
the  two.  Hogan-Yale  put  up  his  eyebrows  and  re- 
marked, firstly,  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  Lord,  and, 
secondly,  that  he  was  as  innocent  as  the  babe  unborn 
of  the  theatrical  resurrection  of  the  Drum-Horse. 

'My  instructions,'  said  Yale,  with  a  singularly  sweet 
smile,  'were  that  the  Drum-Horse  should  be  sent  back 
as  impressively  as  possible.  I  ask  you,  am  I  respon- 
sible if  a  mule-headed  friend  sends  him  back  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  disturb  the  peace  of  mind  of  a  regiment 
of  Her  Majesty's  Cavalry? ' 

Martyn  said,  'You  are  a  great  man,  and  will  in  time 
become  a  General;  but  I'd  give  my  chance  of  a  troop 
to  be  safe  out  of  this  affair.' 

Providence   saved   Martyn   and   Hogan-Yale.    The 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  WHITE  HUSSARS  237 

Second-in-Command  led  the  Colonel  away  to  the  little 
curtained  alcove  wherein  the  Subalterns  of  the  White 
Hussars  were  accustomed  to  play  poker  of  nights;  and 
there,  after  many  oaths  on  the  Colonel's  part,  they 
talked  together  in  low  tones.  I  fancy  that  the  Second- 
in-Command  must  have  represented  the  scare  as  the 
work  of  some  trooper  whom  it  would  be  hopeless  to 
detect;  and  I  know  that  he  dwelt  upon  the  sin  and 
the  shame  of  making  a  public  laughing-stock  of  the 
scare. 

'They  will  call  us,'  said  the  Second-in-Command, 
who  had  a  fine  imagination — Hhey  will  call  us  the 
''Fly-by-Nights";  they  will  call  us  the  ''Ghost  Hunt- 
ers"; they  will  nickname  us  from  one  end  of  the  Army 
List  to  the  other.  All  the  explanation  in  the  world 
won't  make  outsiders  understand  that  the  officers  were 
away  when  the  panic  began.  For  the  honour  of  the 
Regiment  and  for  your  own  sake  keep  this  thing  quiet.' 

The  Colonel  was  so  exhausted  with  anger  that  sooth- 
ing him  down  came  easier  than  might  be  imagined. 
He  was  made  to  see,  gently  and  by  degrees,  that  it 
was  obviously  impossible  to  court-martial  the  whole 
Regiment,  and  equally  impossible  to  proceed  against 
any  subaltern  who,  in  his  belief,  had  any  concern  in 
the  hoax. 

'But  the  beast's  alive!  He's  never  been  shot  at 
all!'  shouted  the  Colonel.  'It's  flat  flagrant  diso- 
bedience! I've  known  a  man  broke  for  less — dam 
sight  less.  They're  mocking  me,  I  tell  you,  Mutman! 
They're  mocking  me!' 

Once  more,  the  Second-in-Command  set  himself  to 
soothe  the  Colonel,  and  wrestled  with  him  for  half  an 


238  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

hour.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  the  Regimental  Sergeant- 
Major  reported  himself.  The  situation  was  rather 
novel  to  him;  but  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  put  out  by 
circumstances.  He  saluted  and  said,  ^Regiment  all 
come  back,  Sir.'  Then,  to  propitiate  the  Colonel — 'An' 
none  of  the  'orses  any  the  worse,  Sir.' 

The  Colonel  only  snorted  and  answered — 'You'd 
better  tuck  the  men  into  their  cots,  then,  and  see  that 
they  don't  wake  up  and  cry  in  the  night.'  The  Ser- 
geant withdrew. 

His  Httle  stroke  of  humour  pleased  the  Colonel,  and, 
further,  he  felt  slightly  ashamed  of  the  language  he  had 
been  using.  The  Second-in-Command  worried  him 
again,  and  the  two  sat  talking  far  into  the  night. 

Next  day  but  one,  there  was  a  Commanding  Officer's 
parade,  and  the  Colonel  harangued  the  White  Hussars 
vigorously.  The  pith  of  his  speech  was  that,  since 
the  Drum-Horse  in  his  old  age  had  proved  himself 
capable  of  cutting  up  the  whole  Regiment,  he  should 
return  to  his  post  of  pride  at  the  head  of  the  Band, 
but  the  Regiment  were  a  set  of  ruffians  with  bad  con- 
sciences. 

The  White  Hussars  shouted,  and  threw  everything 
movable  about  them  into  the  air,  and  when  the  parade 
was  over,  they  cheered  the  Colonel  till  they  couldn't 
speak.  No  cheers  were  put  up  for  Lieutenant  Hogan- 
Yale,  who  smiled  very  sweetly  in  the  background. 

Said  the  Second-in-Command  to  the  Colonel,  unoffi- 
cially— 

'These  little  things  ensure  popularity,  and  do  not 
the  least  affect  discipline.' 

*But  I  went  back  on  my  word,'  said  the  Colonel. 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  WHITE  HUSSARS  239 

'Never  mind,'  said  the  Second-in-Command.  'The 
White  Hussars  will  follow  you  anywhere  from  to-day. 
Regiments  are  just  like  women.  They  will  do  anything 
for  trinketry.' 

A  week  later,  Hogan-Yale  received  an  extraordinary 
letter  from  some  one  who  signed  himseK  'Secretary, 
Chanty  and  Zeal,  3709,  E.C.,'  and  asked  for  'the  return 
of  our  skeleton  which  we  have  reason  to  believe  is  in 
your  possession.' 

'Who  the  deuce  is  this  lunatic  who  trades  in  bones?* 
said  Hogan-Yale. 

'Beg  your  pardon,  Sir,'  said  the  Band-Sergeant,  'but 
the  skeleton  is  with  me,  an'  I'll  return  it  if  you'll  pay  the 
carriage  into  the  Civil  Lines.  There's  a  coffin  with  it, 
Sir.' 

Hogan-Yale  smiled  and  handed  two  rupees  to  the  Band- 
Sergeant,  saying,  'Write  the  date  on  the  skull,  will  you?' 

If  you  doubt  this  story,  and  know  where  to  go,  you  can 
see  the  date  on  the  skeleton.  But  don't  mention  the 
matter  to  the  White  Hussars. 

I  happen  to  know  something  about  it,  because  I  pre- 
pared the  Dnmi-Horse  for  his  resurrection.  He  did  not 
take  kindly  to  the  skeleton  at  all. 


THE  BRONCKHORST  DIVORCE-CASE 

In  the  daytime,  when  she  moved  about  me, 

In  the  night,  when  she  was  sleeping  at  my  side, — 
I  was  wearied,  I  was  wearied  of  her  presence, 
Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  I  grew  to  hate  her — 
Would  God  that  she  or  I  had  died! 

— Confessions. 

There  was  a  man  called  Bronckhorst — a  three-cornered, 
middle-aged  man  in  the  Army — gray  as  a  badger,  and, 
some  people  said,  with  a  touch  of  country-blood  in  him. 
That,  however,  cannot  be  proved.  Mrs.  Bronckhorst  was 
not  exactly  young,  though  fifteen  years  younger  than  her 
husband.  She  was  a  large,  pale,  quiet  woman,  with  heavy 
eyehds  over  weak  eyes,  and  hair  tiiat  turned  red  or  yellow 
as  the  Hghts  fell  on  it. 

Bronckhorst  was  not  nice  in  any  way.  He  had  no  re- 
spect for  the  pretty  public  and  private  Hes  that  make  life 
a  Httle  less  nasty  than  it  is.  His  manner  towards  his  wife 
was  coarse.  There  are  many  things — including  actual 
assault  with  the  clenched  fist — that  a  wife  will  endure; 
but  seldom  a  wife  can  bear — as  Mrs.  Bronckhorst  bore — 
with  a  long  course  of  brutal,  hard  chaff,  making  Hght  of  her 
weaknesses,  her  headaches,  her  small  fits  of  gaiety,  her 
dresses,  her  que  ii  httle  attempts  to  make  herself  attrac- 
tive to  her  husband  when  she  knows  that  she  is  not  what 
she  has  been,  and — worst  of  all — the  love  that  she  spends 

240 


THE  BRONCKHORST  DIVORCE-CASE  241 

on  her  children.  That  particular  sort  of  heavy-handed 
jest  was  specially  dear  to  Bronckhorst.  I  suppose  that 
he  had  first  slipped  into  it,  meaning  no  harm,  in  the  honey- 
moon, when  folk  find  their  ordinary  stock  of  endearments 
run  short,  and  so  go  to  the  other  extreme  to  express  their 
f eeUngs.  A  similar  impulse  makes  a  man  say, '  Hutt,  you 
old  beast  I'  when  a  favourite  horse  nuzzles  his  coat-front. 
Unluckily,  when  the  reaction  of  marriage  sets  in,  the  form 
of  speech  remains,  and,  the  tenderness  having  died  out, 
hurts  the  wife  more  than  she  cares  to  say.  But  Mrs. 
Bronckhorst  was  devoted  to  her  'Teddy'  as  she  called 
him.  Perhaps  that  was  why  he  objected  to  her.  Perhaps 
—this  is  only  a  theory  to  account  for  his  infamous  be- 
haviour later  on — he  gave  way  to  the  queer,  savage  feel- 
ing that  sometimes  takes  by  the  throat  a  husband  twenty 
years  married,  when  he  sees,  across  the  table,  the  same 
same  face  of  his  wedded  wife,  and  knows  that,  as  he  has 
sat  facing  it,  so  must  he  continue  to  sit  until  the  day  of  its 
death  or  his  own.  Most  men  and  all  women  know  the 
spasm.  It  only  lasts  for  three  breaths  as  a  rule,  must  be 
a  '  throwback'  to  times  when  men  and  women  were  rather 
worse  than  they  are  now,  and  is  too  unpleasant  to  be 
discussed. 

Dinner  at  the  Bronckhorsts'  was  an  mfliction  few  men 
cared  to  undergo.  Bronckhorst  took  a  pleasure  in  saying 
things  that  made  his  wife  wince.  When  their  Httle  boy 
came  in  at  dessert,  Bronckhorst  used  to  give  him  half  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  naturally  enough,  the  poor  little  mite 
got  first  riotous,  next  miserable,  and  was  removed 
screaming.  Bronckhorst  asked  if  that  was  the  way  Teddy 
usually  behaved,  and  whether  Mrs.  Bronckhorst  could 
not  spare  some  of  her  time  Ho  teach  the  little  beggar 


342  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

decency.'  Mrs.  Bronckliorst,  who  loved  the  boy  more 
than  her  own  life,  tried  not  to  cry — her  spirit  seemed  to 
have  been  broken  by  her  marriage.  Lastly,  Bronckhorst 
used  to  say,  'There!  that'll  do,  that'll  do.  For  God's 
sake  try  to  behave  like  a  rational  woman.  Go  into  the 
drawing-room.'  Mrs.  Bronckhorst  would  go,  trying  to 
carry  it  all  off  with  a  smile;  and  the  guest  of  the  evening 
would  feel  angry  and  uncomfortable. 

After  three  years  of  this  cheerful  life — for  Mrs.  Bronck- 
horst had  no  women-friends  to  talk  to — the  Station  waf 
startled  by  the  news  that  Bronckhorst  had  instituted  pro- 
ceedings on  the  criminal  count,  against  a  man  called  Biel, 
who  certainly  had  been  rather  attentive  to  Mrs.  Bronck- 
horst whenever  she  had  appeared  in  pubhc.  The  utter 
want  of  reserve  with  which  Bronckhorst  treated  his  own 
dishonour  helped  us  to  know  that  the  evidence  against 
Biel  would  be  entirely  circumstantial  and  native.  There 
were  no  letters;  but  Bronckhurst  said  openly  that  he 
would  rack  Heaven  and  Earth  until  he  saw  Biel  superin- 
tending the  manufacture  of  carpets  in  the  Central  Jail. 
Mrs.  Bronckhorst  kept  entirely  to  her  house,  and  let 
charitable  folks  say  what  they  pleased.  Opinions  were 
divided.  Some  two-thirds  of  the  Station  jumped  at  once 
to  the  conclusion  that  Biel  was  guilty;  but  a  dozen  men 
who  knew  and  liked  him  held  by  him.  Biel  was  furious 
and  surprised.  He  denied  the  whole  thing,  and  vowed 
that  he  would  thrash  Bronckhorst  within  an  inch  of  his 
life.  No  jury,  we  knew,  would  convict  a  man  on  the 
criminal  count  on  native  evidence  in  a  land  where  you  cau 
buy  a  murder-charge,  including  the  corpse,  all  complete 
for  fifty-four  rupees;  but  Biel  did  not  care  to  scrape, 
through  by  the  benefit  of  a  doubt.    He  wanted  th? 


THE  BRONCKHORST  DIVORCE-CASE  243 

whole  thing  cleared;  but,  as  he  said  one  night — 'He  can 
prove  anything  with  servants'  evidence,  and  I've  only  my 
bare  word.'  This  was  almost  a  month  before  the  case 
came  on;  and  beyond  agreeing  with  Biel,  we  could  do 
little.  All  that  we  could  be  sure  of  was  that  the  native 
evidence  would  be  bad  enough  to  blast  Biel's  character  for 
the  rest  of  his  service;  for  when  a  native  begins  perjury  he 
perjures  himself  thoroughly.  He  does  not  boggle  over 
details. 

Some  genius  at  the  end  of  the  table  whereat  the  affair 
was  being  talked  over,  said,  'Look  here!  I  don't  believe 
lawyers  are  any  good.  Get  a  man  to  wire  to  Strickland, 
and  beg  him  to  come  down  and  pull  us  through.' 

Strickland  was  about  a  hundred  and  eighty  miles  up 
the  line.  He  had  not  long  been  married  to  Miss  Youghal, 
but  he  scented  in  the  telegram  a  chance  of  return  to  the 
old  detective  work  that  his  soul  lusted  after,  and  next 
night  he  came  in  and  heard  our  story.  He  finished  his 
pipe  and  said  oracularly,  *We  must  get  at  the  evidence. 
Oorya  bearer,  Mussulman  khit  and  sweeper  ayah^  I 
suppose,  are  the  pillars  of  the  charge.  I  am  on  in  this 
piece;  but  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  rusty  in  my  talk.' 

He  rose  and  went  into  Biel's  bedroom,  where  his  tnmk 
had  been  put,  and  shut  the  door.  An  hour  later,  we 
heard  him  say,  'I  hadn't  the  heart  to  part  with  my  old 
make-ups  when  I  married.  Will  this  do? '  There  was  a 
\o\he[y  faquir  salaaming  in  the  doorway. 

'Now  lend  me  fifty  rupees,'  said  Strickland,  'and  give 
me  your  Words  of  Honour  that  you  won't  tell  my  wife.' 

He  got  all  that  he  asked  for,  and  left  the  house  while 
the  table  drank  his  health.  What  he  did  only  he  himself 
knows.    A  faquir  hung  about  Bronckhorst's  compound 


•44  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

for  twelve  days.  Then  a  sweeper  appeared,  and  wken 
Biel  heard  of  him,  he  said  that  Strickland  was  an  angel 
full-fledged.  Whether  the  sweeper  made  love  to  Janki, 
Mrs.  Bronckhorst's  ayah,  is  a  question  which  concerns 
Strickland  exclusively. 

He  came  back  at  the  end  of  three  weeks,  and  said 
quietly,  *You  spoke  the  truth,  Biel.  The  whole  business 
is  put  up  from  beginning  to  end.  'Jove!  It  almost 
astonishes  me  !   That  Bronckhorst-beast  isn't  fit  to  live.' 

There  was  uproar  and  shouting,  and  Biel  said,  'How 
are  you  going  to  prove  it?  You  can't  say  that  you've 
been  trespassing  on  Bronckhorst's  compound  in  disguise!' 

'  No,'  said  Strickland.  '  Tell  your  lawyer-fool,  whoever 
he  is,  to  get  up  something  strong  about  '* inherent  im- 
probabilities" and  "discrepancies  of  evidence."  He 
won't  have  to  speak,  but  it  will  make  him  happy.  Fm 
going  to  run  this  business.' 

Biel  held  his  tongue,  and  the  other  men  waited  to  see 
what  would  happen.  They  trusted  Strickland  as  men 
trust  quiet  men.  When  the  case  came  off  the  Court  was 
crowded.  Strickland  himg  about  in  the  verandah  of  the 
Court,  till  he  met  the  Mohammedan  khitmatgar.  Then  he 
murmured  a  faquir's  blessing  in  his  ear,  and  asked  him 
how  his  second  wife  did.  The  man  spun  round,  and,  as  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  '  Estreeken  Sahib,'  his  jaw  dropped. 
You  must  remember  that  before  Strickland  was  married, 
he  was,  as  I  have  told  you  already,  a  power  among 
natives.  Strickland  whispered  a  rather  coarse  vernacular 
proverb  to  the  effect  that  he  w^as  abreast  of  all  that  was 
going  on  and  went  into  the  Court  armed  with  a  gut 
trainer's-wliip. 

The  Mohammedan  was  the  first  witness  and  Strickland 


THE  BRONCKHORST  DIVORCE-CASE  24S 

beamed  upon  him  from  the  back  of  the  Court.  The  man 
moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue  and,  in  his  abject  fear 
of  'Estreeken  Sahib'  the  faquir,  went  back  on  every  de- 
tail of  his  evidence — said  that  he  was  a  poor  man  and  God 
was  his  witness  that  he  had  forgotten  everything  that 
Bronckhorst  Sahib  had  told  him  to  say.  Between  his 
terror  of  Strickland,  the  Judge,  and  Bronckhorst,  he  col- 
lapsed weeping. 

Then  began  the  panic  among  the  witnesses.  Janki,  the 
ayah,  leering  chastely  behind  her  veil,  turned  gray,  and 
the  bearer  left  the  Court.  He  said  that  his  Mamma  was 
dying  and  that  it  was  not  wholesome  for  any  man  to  lie 
imthrif  tily  in  the  presence  of '  Estreeken  Sahib.' 

Biel  said  politely  to  Bronckhorst, '  Your  witnesses  don't 
seem  to  work.  Haven't  you  any  forged  letters  to  pro- 
duce? '  But  Bronckhorst  was  swaying  to  and  fro  in  his 
chair,  and  there  was  a  dead  pause  after  Biel  had  been 
called  to  order. 

Bronckhorst's  Counsel  saw  the  look  on  his  client's  face, 
and  without  more  ado,  pitched  his  papers  on  the  little 
green  baize  table,  and  mumbled  something  about  having 
been  misinformed.  The  whole  Court  applauded  wildly, 
like  soldiers  at  a  theatre,  and  the  Judge  began  to  say  what 
he  thought. 


Biel  came  out  of  the  Court,  and  Strickland  dropped  a 
gut  trainer's-whip  in  the  verandah.  Ten  minutes  later, 
Biel  was  cutting  Bronckhorst  into  ribbons  behind  the  old 
Court  cells,  quietly  and  without  scandal.  What  was  left 
of  Bronckhorst  was  sent  home  in  a  carriage;  and  his  wife 
wept  over  it  and  nursed  it  into  a  man  again. 


246  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Later  on,  after  Biel  had  managed  to  hush  up  the 
counter-charge  against  Bronckhorst  of  fabricating  false 
evidence,  Mrs.  Bronckhorst,  with  her  faint  watery  smile, 
said  that  there  had  been  a  mistake,  but  it  wasn't  her 
Teddy's  fault  altogether.  She  would  wait  till  her  Teddy 
came  back  to  her.  Perhaps  he  had  grown  tired  of  her,  or 
she  had  tried  his  patience  and  perhaps  we  wouldn't  cut 
her  any  more,  and  perhaps  the  mothers  would  let  their 
children  play  with  *  little  Teddy'  again.  He  was  so 
lonely.  Then  the  Station  invited  Mrs.  Bronckhorst 
everywhere,  until  Bronckhorst  was  fit  to  appear  in  public, 
when  he  went  Home  and  took  his  wife  with  him.  Accord- 
ing to  the  latest  advices,  her  Teddy  did  come  back  to  her, 
and  they  are  moderately  happy.  Though,  of  course,  he 
can  never  forgive  her  the  thrashing  that  she  was  the  in- 
direct means  of  getting  for  him. 


What  Biel  wants  to  know  is,  ^  Why  didn't  I  press  home 
the  charge  against  the  Bronckhorst-brute,  and  have  him 
run  in?' 

What  Mrs.  Strickland  wants  to  know  is,  *How  did 
my  husband  bring  such  a  lovely,  lovely  Waler  from 
your  Station?  I  know  all  his  money-affairs;  and  I'm 
certain  he  didn't  buy  it.' 

What  I  want  to  know  is,  *How  do  women  like  Mrs. 
Bronckhorst  come  to  marry  men  like  Bronckhorst?' 

And  my  conundrum  is  the  most  unanswerable  of  the 
three. 


VENUS  ANNODOMINI 

And  the  years  went  on,  as  the  years  must  do; 
But  our  great  Diana  was  always  new — 
Fresh,  and  blooming,  and  blonde,  and  fair, 
With  azure  eyes  and  with  aureate  hair; 
And  all  the  folk,  as  they  came  or  went, 
Offered  her  praise  to  her  heart's  content. 

— Diana  of  Ephesus. 

She  had  nothing  to  do  with  Number  Eighteen  in  the 
Braccio  Nuovo  of  the  Vatican,  between  Visconti's  Ceres 
and  the  God  of  the  Nile.  She  was  purely  an  Indian 
deity — an  Anglo-Indian  deity,  that  is  to  say — and  we 
called  her  the  Venus  Annodomini,  to  distinguish  her 
from  other  Annodominis  of  the  same  everlasting  order. 
There  was  a  legend  among  the  Hills  that  she  had  once 
been  young;  but  no  living  man  was  prepared  to  come 
forward  and  say  boldly  that  the  legend  was  true.  Men 
rode  up  to  Simla,  and  stayed,  and  went  away  and  made 
their  name  and  did  their  Hfe's  work,  and  returned  again 
to  find  the  Venus  Annodomini  exactly  as  they  had 
left  her.  She  was  as  immutable  as  the  Hills.  But  not 
quite  so  green.  All  that  a  girl  of  eighteen  could  do  in  the 
way  of  riding,  walking,  dancing,  picnicking  and  over-ex- 
ertion generally,  the  Venus  Annodomini  did,  and  showed 
no  sign  of  fatigue  or  trace  of  weariness.  Besides  per- 
petual youth,  she  had  discovered,  men  said,  the  secret 
of  perpetual  health;  and  her  fame  spread  about  the  land. 

247 


S48  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

From  a  mere  woman,  she  grew  to  be  an  Institution,  inso- 
much that  no  young  man  could  be  said  to  be  properly 
formed,  who  had  not,  at  some  time  or  another,  wor- 
shipped at  the  shrine  of  the  Venus  Annodomini.  There 
was  no  one  like  her,  though  there  were  many  imitations. 
Six  years  in  her  eyes  were  no  more  than  six  months  to 
ordinary  women;  and  ten  made  less  visible  impression 
on  her  than  does  a  week's  fever  on  an  ordinary  woman. 
Every  one  adored  her,  and  in  return  she  was  pleasant 
and  courteous  to  nearly  every  one.  Youth  had  been 
a  habit  of  hers  for  so  long,  that  she  could  not  part  with 
it — never  realised,  in  fact,  the  necessity  of  parting 
with  it — and  took  for  her  more  chosen  associates  young 
people. 

Among  the  worshippers  of  the  Venus  Annodomini 
was  young  Gayerson.  ^Very  Young  Gayerson'  he 
was  called  to  distinguish  him  from  his  father  ^  Young' 
Gayerson,  a  Bengal  Civilian,  who  affected  the  customs 
■ — as  he  had  the  heart — of  youth.  'Very  Young'  Gay- 
erson was  not  content  to  worship  placidly  and  for  form's 
sake,  as  the  other  young  men  did,  or  to  accept  a  ride  or  a 
dance,  or  a  talk  from  the  Venus  Annodomini  in  a 
properly  humble  and  thankful  spirit.  He  was  exacting, 
and,  therefore,  the  Venus  Annodomini  repressed  him. 
He  worried  himself  nearly  sick  in  a  futile  sort  of  way  over 
her;  and  his  devotion  and  earnestness  made  him  appear 
either  shy  or  boisterous  or  rude,  as  his  mood  might  vary, 
by  the  side  of  the  older  men  who,  with  him,  bowed  before 
the  Venus  Annodomini.  She  was  sorry  for  him.  He  re- 
minded her  of  a  lad  who,  three-and-twenty  years  ago,  had 
professed  a  boundless  devotion  for  her,  and  for  whom 
in  return  she  had  felt  something  more  than  a  week's 


VENUS  ANNODOMINI  249 

weakness.  But  that  lad  had  fallen  away  and  married 
another  woman  less  than  a  year  after  he  had  worshipped 
her;  and  the  Venus  Annodomini  had  almost — not  quite 
—forgotten  his  name.  'Very  Young'  Gayerson  had  the 
same  big  blue  eyes  and  the  same  way  of  pouting  his  under- 
lip  when  he  was  excited  or  troubled.  But  the  Venus 
Annodomini  checked  him  sternly  none  the  less.  Too 
much  zeal  was  a  thing  that  she  did  not  approve  of;  pre- 
ferring instead  a  tempered  and  sober  tenderness. 

'Very  Young'  Gayerson  was  miserable,  and  took 
no  trouble  to  conceal  his  wretchedness.  He  was  in 
the  Army — a  Line  regiment  I  think,  but  am  not  certain 
—and,  since  his  face  was  a  looking-glass  and  his  forehead 
an  open  book,  by  reason  of  his  innocence,  his  brothers- 
in-arms  made  his  life  a  burden  to  him  and  embittered 
his  naturally  sweet  disposition.  No  one  except  'Very 
Young'  Gayerson,  and  he  never  told  his  views,  knew 
how  old  'Very  Young'  Gayerson  believed  the  Venus 
Annodomini  to  be.  Perhaps  he  thought  her  five-and- 
twenty,  or  perhaps  she  told  him  that  she  was  this  age. 
'  Very  Young '  Gayerson  would  have  forded  the  Indus  in 
flood  to  carry  her  lightest  word,  and  had  implicit  faith 
in  her.  Every  one  liked  him,  and  every  one  was  sorry 
when  they  saw  him  so  bound  a  slave  of  the  Venus  Anno- 
domini. Every  one,  too,  admitted  that  it  was  not  her 
fault;  for  the  Venus  Annodomini  differed  from  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  and  Mrs.  Reiver  in  this  particular — she  never 
moved  a  finger  to  attract  any  one;  but,  like  Ninon  de 
L'Enclos,  all  men  were  attracted  to  her.  One  could  ad- 
mire and  respect  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  despise  and  avoid  Mrs. 
Reiver,  but  one  was  forced  to  adore  the  Venus  Anno- 
domini. 


250  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

'Very  Young'  Gayerson's  papa  held  a  Division  oi 
a  Collectorate  or  something  administrative  in  a  partic- 
ularly unpleasant  part  of  Bengal — full  of  Babus  who 
edited  newspapers  proving  that  *  Young'  Gayerson 
was  a  'Nero'  and  a  'Scylla'  and  a  'Charybdis';  and, 
in  addition  to  the  Babus,  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
dysentery  and  cholera  abroad  for  nine  months  of  the 
year.  *  Young'  Gayerson — he  was  about  five-and-forty 
— rather  liked  Babus,  they  amused  him,  but  he  ob- 
jected to  dysentery,  and  when  he  could  get  away," 
went  to  Darjiling  for  the  most  part.  This  particular 
season  he  fancied  that  he  would  come  up  to  Simla  and 
see  his  boy.  The  boy  was  not  altogether  pleased.  He 
told  the  Venus  Annodomini  that  his  father  was  coming 
up,  and  she  flushed  a  little  and  said  that  she  should 
be  delighted  to  make  his  acquaintance.  Then  she 
looked  long  and  thoughtfully  at  'Very  Young'  Gayer- 
son, because  she  was  very,  very  sorry  for  him,  and  he 
was  a  very,  very  big  idiot. 

*My  daughter  is  coming  out  in  a  fortnight,  Mi. 
Gayerson,'  she  said. 

'Your  what .?'  said  he. 

'Daughter,'  said  the  Venus  Annodomini.  'She's 
been  out  for  a  year  at  Home  already,  and  I  want  her 
to  see  a  little  of  India.  She  is  nineteen  and  a  very 
sensible  nice  girl  I  believe.' 

'Very  Young'  Gayerson,  who  was  a  short  twenty- 
two  years  old,  nearly  fell  out  of  his  chair  with  astonish- 
ment; for  he  had  persisted  in  believing,  against  aU 
belief,  in  the  youth  of  the  Venus  Annodomini.  She, 
with  her  back  in  the  curtained  window,  watched  the 
effect  of  her  sentences  and  smiled. 


VENUS  ANNODOMINI  251 

'Very  Young*  Gayerson's  papa  came  up  twelve 
days  later,  and  had  not  been  in  Simla  four-and-twenty 
hours  before  two  men,  old  acquaintances  of  his,  had  told 
him  how  'Very  Young'  Gayerson  had  been  conducting 
himself. 

'Young'  Gayerson  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  inquired 
who  the  Venus  Annodomini  might  be.  Which  proves 
that  he  had  been  Uving  in  Bengal,  where  nobody  knows 
anything  except  the  rate  of  Exchange.  Then  he  said 
boys  will  be  boys,  and  spoke  to  his  son  about  the  matter. 
*Very  Young'  Gayerson  said  that  he  felt  wretched 
and  imhappy;  and  *  Young'  Gayerson  said  that  he  re- 
pented of  having  helped  to  bring  a  fool  into  the  world. 
He  suggested  that  his  son  had  better  cut  his  leave  short 
and  go  down  to  his  duties.  This  led  to  an  unfilial  an- 
swer, and  relations  were  strained,  imtil  'Young'  Gayer- 
son demanded  that  they  should  call  on  the  Venus 
Annodomini.  'Very  Young'  Gayerson  went  with  his 
papa,  feeling,  somehow,  uncomfortable  and  small. 

The  Venus  Annodomini  received  them  graciously  and 
'  Young '  Gayerson  said,  '  By  Jove !  It's  Kitty ! '  'Very 
Young'  Gayerson  would  have  Hstened  for  an  explanation 
if  his  time  had  not  been  taken  up  with  trying  to  talk 
to  a  large,  handsome,  quiet,  well-dressed  girl — intro- 
duced to  him  by  the  Venus  Annodomini  as  her  daughter. 
She  was  far  older  in  manner,  style,  and  repose  than  'Very 
Young'  Gayerson;  and,  as  he  realised  this  thing,  he  felt 
sick. 

Presently,  he  heard  the  Venus  Annodomini  saying, 
'Do  you  know  that  your  son  is  one  of  my  most  devoted 
admirers? ' 

'I  don't  wonder,'  said  'Young'  Gayerson.    Here  he 


353  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

raised  his  voice,  'He  follows  his  fa  therms  footsteps. 
Didn't  I  worship  the  ground  you  trod  on,  ever  so  long 
ago,  Kitty — and  you  haven't  changed  since  then.  How 
strange  it  all  seems!' 

'Very  Young'  Gayerson  said  nothing.  His  con- 
versation with  the  daughter  of  the  Venus  Annodomini 
was,  through  the  rest  of  the  call,  fragmentary  and  dis- 
jointed. 


'At  five  to-morrow,  then,'  said  the  Venus  Anno- 
domini.    'And  mind  you  are  punctual.' 

'At  five  punctually,'  said  'Young'  Gayerson.  'You 
can  lend  your  old  father  a  horse  I  dare  say,  youngster, 
can't  you?    I'm  going  for  a  ride  to-morrow  afternoon.'* 

'Certainly,'  said  'Very  Young'  Gayerson.  'I  am 
going  down  to-morrow  morning.  My  ponies  are  at 
your  service,  Sir.' 

The  Venus  Aimodomini  looked  at  him  across  the 
half-Hght  of  the  room,  and  her  big  gray  eyes  filled  with 
moisture.     She  rose  and  shook  hands  with  him. 

'  Good-bye,  Tom,'  whispered  the  Venus  Annodomini. 


THE  BISARA  OF  POOREE 

Little  Blind  Fish,  thou  art  marvellous  wise, 
Little  Blind  Fish,  who  put  out  thy  eyes? 
Open  thy  ears  while  I  whisper  my  wish — 
Bring  me  a  lover,  thou  Little  Blind  Fish. 

— The  Charm  of  the  Bisara, 

Some  natives  say  that  it  came  from  the  other  side 
of  Kulu,  where  the  eleven-inch  Temple  Sapphire  is. 
Others  that  it  was  made  at  the  Devil-Shrine  of  Ao- 
Chung  in  Thibet,  was  stolen  by  a  Kafir,  from  him  by  a 
Gurkha,  from  him  again  by  a  LahouH,  from  him  by 
a  khitmatgar,  and  by  this  latter  sold  to  an  Englishman, 
so  all  its  virtue  was  lost;  because,  to  work  properly, 
the  Bisara  of  Pooree  must  be  stolen — with  bloodshed 
if  possible,  but,  at  any  rate,  stolen. 

These  stories  of  the  coming  into  India  are  all  false. 
It  was  made  at  Pooree  ages  since — the  manner  of  its 
making  would  fill  a  small  book — was  stolen  by  one  of 
the  Temple  dancing-girls  there,  for  her  own  purposes, 
and  then  passed  on  from  hand  to  hand,  steadily  north- 
ward, till  it  reached  Hanle;  always  bearing  the  same 
name — the  Bisara  of  Pooree.  In  shape  it  is  a  tiny 
square  box  of  silver,  studded  outside  with  eight  small 
balas-rubies.  Inside  the  box,  which  opens  with  a  spring, 
is  a  little  eyeless  fish,  carved  from  some  sort  of  dark 
shiny  nut  and  wrapped  in  a  shred  of  faded  gold-cloth. 

3S3 


aS4  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  fflLLS 

I'hat  is  the  Bisara  of  Pooree,  and  it  were  better  for  a 
man  to  take  a  king-cobra  in  his  hand  than  to  touch  the 
Bisara  of  Pooree. 

All  kinds  of  magic  are  out  of  date,  and  done  away  with 
except  in  India,  where  nothing  changes  in  spite  of  the 
shiny,  top-scum  stuff  that  people  call  'civiHsation.'  Any 
man  who  knows  about  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  will  tell  you 
what  its  powers  are — always  supposing  that  it  has  been 
honestly  stolen.  It  is  the  only  regularly  working,  trust- 
worthy love-charm  in  the  coimtry,  with  one  exception. 
[The  other  charm  is  in  the  hands  of  a  trooper  of  the 
Nizam's  Horse,  at  a  place  called  Tuprani,  due  north  of 
Hyderabad.]  This  can  be  depended  upon  for  a  fact. 
Some  one  else  may  explain  it. 

If  the  Bisara  be  not  stolen,  but  given  or  bought  or  found, 
it  turns  against  its  owner  in  three  years,  and  leads  to  ruin 
or  death.  This  is  another  fact  which  you  may  explain 
when  you  have  time.  Meanwhile,  you  can  laugh  at  it. 
At  present,  the  Bisara  is  safe  on  a  hack-pony's  neck,  in- 
side the  blue  bead-necklace  that  keeps  off  the  Evil-Eye. 
If  the  pony-driver  ever  finds  it,  and  wears  it,  or  gives  it  to 
his  wife,  I  am  sorry  for  him. 

A  very  dirty  hiU-cooly  woman,  with  goitre,  owned  it  at 
Theog  in  1884.  It  came  into  Simla  from  the  north  before 
ChuTton^ skhitmatgar  bought  it,  and  sold  it,  for  three 
times  its  silver-value,  to  Churton,  who  collected  curi- 
osities. The  servant  knew  no  more  what  he  had  bought 
than  the  master;  but  a  man  looking  over  Churton's 
collection  of  curiosities — Churton  was  an  Assistant  Com- 
missioner, by  the  way — saw  and  held  his  tongue.  He 
was  an  Englishman;  but  knew  how  to  believe.  Which 
ghows  that  he  was  different  from  most  Englishmen.     He 


THE  BlSAHA  OF  POOREE  255 

knew  that  it  was  dangerous  to  have  any  share  in  the  little 
box  when  working  or  dormant;  for  Love  unsought  is  a 
terrible  gift. 

Pack — *  Grubby '  Pack,  as  we  used  to  call  him — was,  in 
every  way,  a  nasty  little  man  who  must  have  crawled  into 
the  Army  by  mistake.  He  was  three  inches  taller  than 
his  sword,  but  not  half  so  strong.  And  the  sword  was  a 
'ifty-shilling,  tailor-made  one.  Nobody  liked  him,  and,  I 
buppose,  it  was  his  wizenedness  and  worthlessness  that 
made  him  fall  so  hopelessly  in  love  with  Miss  Hollis,  who 
was  good  and  sweet,  and  five-foot-seven  in  her  tennis- 
shoes.  He  was  not  content  with  falHng  in  love  quietly, 
but  brought  all  the  strength  of  his  miserable  little 
nature  into  the  business.  If  he  had  not  been  so  objection- 
able, one  might  have  pitied  him.  He  vapoured,  and 
fretted,  and  fumed,  and  trotted  up  and  down,  and  tried 
to  make  himself  pleasing  in  Miss  Holhs'  big,  quiet,  gray 
eyes,  and  failed.  It  was  one  of  the  cases  that  you  some- 
times meet,  even  in  our  country  where  we  marry  by  Code, 
of  a  really  blind  attachment  all  on  one  side,  without  the 
faintest  possibility  of  return.  Miss  Hollis  looked  on  Pack 
as  some  sort  of  vermin  running  about  the  road.  He  had 
no  prospects  beyond  Captain's  pay,  and  no  wits  to  help 
that  out  by  one  penny.  In  a  large-sized  man,  love  like 
his  would  have  been  touching.  In  a  good  man,  it  would 
have  been  grand.  He  being  what  he  was,  it  was  only  a 
nuisance. 

You  will  believe  this  much.  What  you  will  not  believe 
is  what  follows:  Churton,  and  The  Man  who  Kjiew  what 
the  Bisara  was,  were  lunching  at  the  Simla  Club  together. 
Churton  was  complaining  of  life  in  general.  His  best 
mare  had  rolled  out  of  stable  down  the  cliff  and  had 


2S6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS, 

broken  her  back;  his  decisions  were  being  reversed  by  the 
upper  Courts  more  than  an  Assistant  Commissioner  of 
eight  years'  standing  has  a  right  to  expect;  he  knew  liver 
and  fever,  and,  for  weeks  past,  had  felt  out  cf  sorts. 
Altogether,  he  was  disgusted  and  disheartened. 

Simla  Club  dining-room  is  built,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
in  two  sections,  with  an  arch-arrangement  dividing  them. 
Come  in,  turn  to  your  own  left,  take  the  table  under  the 
window,  and  you  cannot  see  any  one  who  has  come  in, 
turned  to  the  right,  and  taken  a  table  on  the  right  side  of 
the  arch.  Curiously  enough,  every  word  that  you  say  can 
be  heard,  not  only  by  the  other  diner,  but  by  the  servants 
beyond  the  screen  through  which  they  bring  dinner. 
This  is  worth  knowing;  an  echoing-room  is  a  trap  to  be 
forewarned  against. 

Half  in  fun,  and  half  hoping  to  be  believed.  The  Man 
who  Kjiew  told  Churton  the  story  of  the  Bisara  of  Pooree 
at  rather  greater  length  than  I  have  told  it  to  you  in  this 
place;  winding  up  with  a  suggestion  that  Churton  might 
as  well  throw  the  little  box  down  the  hill  and  see  whether 
all  his  troubles  would  go  with  it.  In  ordinary  ears, 
English  ears,  the  tale  was  only  an  interesting  bit  of  folk- 
lore. Churton  laughed,  said  that  he  felt  better  for  his 
tifSn,  and  went  out.  Pack  had  been  tiffining  by  himself 
to  the  right  of  the  arch,  and  had  heard  everything.  He 
was  nearly  mad  with  his  absurd  infatuation  for  Miss 
HolHs,  that  all  Simla  had  been  laughing  about. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that,  when  a  man  hates  or  loves 
beyond  reason,  he  is  ready  to  go  beyond  reason  to  gratify 
his  feelings.  Which  he  would  not  do  for  money  or  power 
merely.  Depend  upon  it,  Solomon  would  never  have 
built  altars  to  Ashtaroth  and  all  those  ladies  with  queer 


THE  BISARA  OF  POOREE  257 

names,  if  there  had  not  been  trouble  of  some  kind  in  his 
zenana,  and  nowhere  else.  But  this  is  beside  the  story. 
The  facts  of  the  case  are  these:  Pack  called  on  Churton 
next  day  when  Churton  was  out,  left  his  card,  and  stole 
the  Bisara  of  Pooree  from  its  place  under  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece!  Stole  it  like  the  thief  he  was  by  nature. 
Three  days  later  all  Simla  was  electrified  by  the  news  that 
Miss  HolKs  had  accepted  Pack — the  shrivelled  rat,  Pack! 
Do  you  desire  clearer  evidence  than  this?  The  Bisara  of 
Pooree  had  been  stolen,  and  it  worked  as  it  had  always 
done  when  won  by  foul  means. 

There  are  three  or  four  times  in  a  man's  life  when  he  is 
justified  in  meddling  with  other  people's  affairs  to  play 
Providence. 

The  Man  Who  Knew  felt  that  he  was  justified;  but  be- 
Heving  and  acting  on  a  belief  are  quite  different  things. 
The  insolent  satisfaction  of  Pack  as  he  ambled  by  the  side 
of  Miss  HolHs,  and  Churton's  striking  release  from  liver, 
as  soon  as  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  had  gone,  decided  The 
Man.  He  explained  to  Churton,  and  Churton  laughed, 
because  he  was  not  brought  up  to  beheve  that  men  on  the 
Government  House  List  steal — at  least  little  things. 
But  the  miraculous  acceptance  by  Miss  Hollis  of  that 
tailor.  Pack,  decided  him  to  take  steps  on  suspicion.  He 
vowed  that  he  only  wanted  to  find  out  where  his  ruby- 
studded  silver  box  had  vanished  to.  You  cannot  accuse 
a  man  on  the  Government  House  List  of  steaKng.  And  if 
you  rifle  liis  room,  you  are  a  thief  yourself.  Churton, 
prompted  by  The  Man  who  Knew,  decided  on  burglary. 
If  he  found  nothing  in  Pack's  room  .  .  .  but  it  is  not 
nice  to  think  of  what  would  have  happened  in  that 
case. 


2s8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Pack  went  to  a  dance  at  Benmore — Benmore  was  Ben- 
more  in  those  days,  and  not  an  office — and  danced  fifteen 
waltzes  out  of  twenty-two  with  Miss  Hollis.  Churton 
and  The  Man  took  all  the  keys  that  they  could  lay  hands 
on,  and  went  to  Pack's  room  in  the  hotel,  certain  that  his 
servants  would  be  away.  Pack  was  a  cheap  soul.  He 
had  not  purchased  a  decent  cash-box  to  keep  his  papers 
in,  but  one  of  those  native  imitations  that  you  buy  for 
ten  rupees.  It  opened  to  any  sort  of  key,  and  there  at  the 
bottom,  under  Pack's  Insurance  Policy,  lay  the  Bisara  of 
Pooree! 

Churton  called  Pack  names,  put  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  in 
his  pocket,  and  went  to  the  dance  with  The  Man.  At 
least,  he  came  in  time  for  supper,  and  saw  the  beginning 
of  the  end  in  Miss  Hollis'  eyes.  She  was  hysterical  after 
supper,  and  was  taken  away  by  her  Mamma. 

At  the  dance,  with  the  abominable  Bisara  in  his  pocket, 
Churton  twisted  his  foot  on  one  of  the  steps  leading  down 
to  the  old  Rink,  and  had  to  be  sent  home  in  a  'rickshaw, 
grumbling.  He  did  not  believe  in  the  Bisara  of  Pooree 
any  the  more  for  this  manifestation,  but  he  sought  out 
Pack  and  called  him  some  ugly  names;  and '  thief  was  the 
mildest  of  them.  Pack  took  the  names  with  the  nervous 
smile  of  a  little  man  who  wants  both  soul  and  body  to 
resent  an  insult,  and  went  his  way.  There  was  no  public 
scandal. 

A  week  later.  Pack  got  his  definite  dismissal  from  Miss 
Hollis.  There  had  been  a  mistake  in  the  placing  of  her 
affections,  she  said.  So  he  went  away  to  Madras,  where 
he  can  do  no  great  harm  even  if  he  lives  to  be  a  Colonel. 

Churton  insisted  upon  The  Man  who  Knew  taking  the 
Bisara  of  Pooree  as  a  gift.    The  man  took  it,  went  down 


THE  BISARA  OF  POOREE  259 

to  the  Cart-Road  at  once,  found  a  cart-pony  with  a  blue- 
bead-necklace,  fastened  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  inside  the 
necklace  with  a  piece  of  shoe-string,  and  thanked  Heaven 
that  he  was  rid  of  a  danger.  Remember,  in  case  you  ever 
find  it,  that  you  must  not  destroy  the  Bisara  of  Pooree.  I 
have  not  time  to  explain  why  just  now,  but  the  power  lies 
in  the  little  wooden  fish.  Mister  Gubematis  or  Max 
Miiller  could  tell  you  more  about  it  than  I. 

You  will  say  that  all  this  story  is  made  up.  Very  well. 
If  ever  you  come  across  a  little,  silver,  ruby-studded  box, 
seven-eighths  of  an  inch  long  by  three-quarters  wide,  with 
a  dark  brown  wooden  fish  wrapped  in  gold  cloth,  inside  it, 
keep  it.  Keep  it  for  three  years,  and  then  you  will  dis- 
cover for  yourself  whether  my  story  is  true  or  false. 

Better  still,  steal  it  as  Pack  did,  and  you  will  be  sorry 
that  you  had  not  killed  yourself  in  the  beginning. 


A  FRIEND'S  FRIEND 

Wherefore  slew  you  the  stranger?     He  brought  me  dishonour. 
I  saddled  my  mare  Bijli.    I  set  him  upon  her. 
I  gave  him  rice  and  goat's  flesh.     He  bared  me  to  laughter; 
When  he  was  gone  from  my  tent,  swift  I  followed  after, 
Taking  a  sword  in  my  hand.    The  hot  wine  had  filled  him: 
Under  the  stars  he  mocked  me.    Therefore  I  killed  him. 

— Hadramauti. 

This  tale  must  be  told  in  the  first  person  for  many 
reasons.  The  man  I  desire  to  expose  is  Tranter  of  the 
Bombay  side.  I  want  Tranter  black-balled  at  his  Club, 
divorced  from  his  wife,  turned  out  of  Service,  and  cast  into 
prison,  until  I  get  an  apology  from  him  in  writing.  I  wish 
to  warn  the  world  against  Tranter  of  the  Bombay  side. 

You  know  the  casual  way  in  which  men  pass  on  ac- 
quaintances in  India.  It  is  a  great  convenience,  because 
you  can  get  rid  of  a  man  you  don't  Hke  by  writing  a  letter 
of  introduction  and  putting  him,  with  it,  into  the  train. 
T.  G.  's  are  best  treated  thus.  If  you  keep  them  moving, 
they  have  no  time  to  say  insulting  and  offensive  things 
about  'Anglo-Indian  Society.' 

One  day,  late  in  the  cold  weather,  I  got  a  letter  of 
preparation  from  Tranter  of  the  Bombay  side,  advising 
me  of  the  advent  of  a  T.  G.,  a  man  called  Jevon;  and  say- 
ing, as  usual,  that  any  kindness  shown  to  Jevon  would  be 
a  kindness  to  Tranter.  Every  one  knows  the  regular 
form  of  these  communications. 

2tfo 


A  FRIEND'S  FRIEND  261 

Two  days  later,  Jevon  turned  up  with  his  letter  of  in- 
troduction, and  I  did  what  I  could  for  him.  He  was  lint- 
haired,  fresh-coloured,  and  very  English.  But  he  held  no 
views  about  the  Government  of  India.  Nor  did  he 
insist  on  shooting  tigers  on  the  Station  Mall,  as  some  T. 
G.'s  do.  Nor  did  he  call  us  ^colonists,'  and  dine  in  a 
flannel-shirt  and  tweeds,  under  that  delusion,  as  other  T. 
G.'s  do.  He  was  well  behaved  and  very  grateful  for  the 
Uttle  I  won  for  him — most  grateful  of  all  when  I  secured 
him  an  invitation  for  the  Afghan  Ball,  and  introduced  him 
to  a  Mrs.  Deemes,  a  lady  for  whom  I  had  a  great  respect 
and  admiration,  who  danced  Hke  the  shadow  of  a  leaf  in  a 
Hght  wind.  I  set  great  store  by  the  friendship  of  Mrs. 
Deemes;  but,  had  I  known  what  was  coming,  I  would  have 
broken  Jevon's  neck  with  a  curtain-pole  before  getting 
him  that  invitation. 

But  I  did  not  know,  and  he  dined  at  the  Club,  I  think, 
on  the  night  of  the  ball.  I  dined  at  home.  When  I  went 
to  the  dance,  the  first  man  I  met  asked  me  whether  I  had 
seen  Jevon.  'No,'  said  I.  'He's  at  the  Club.  Hasn't 
he  come? ' — *  Come ! '  said  the  man.  '  Yes,  he's  very  much 
come.    You'd  better  look  at  him.' 

I  sought  for  Jevon.  I  found  him  sitting  on  a  bench 
and  smiHng  to  himself  and  a  programme.  Half  a  look 
was  enough  for  me.  On  that  one  night,  of  all  others,  he 
had  begun  a  long  and  thirsty  evening,  by  taking  too 
much!  He  was  breathing  heavily  through  his  nose,  his 
eyes  were  rather  red,  and  he  appeared  very  satisfied  with 
all  the  earth.  I  put  up  a  little  prayer  that  the  waltzing 
would  work  off  the  wine,  and  went  about  feeling  uncom- 
fortable. But  I  saw  Jevon  walk  up  to  Mrs.  Deemes  for 
the  first  dance,  and  I  knew  that  all  the  waltzing  on  the 


262  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

card  was  not  enough  to  keep  Jevon's  rebellious  legs  steady. 
That  couple  went  round  six  times.  I  counted.  Mrs. 
Deemes  dropped  Jevon^s  arm  and  came  across  to  me. 

I  am  not  going  to  repeat  what  Mrs.  Deemes  said  to  me; 
because  she  was  very  angry  indeed.  I  am  not  going  to 
write  what  I  said  to  Mrs.  Deemes,  because  I  didn't  say 
anything.  I  only  wished  that  I  had  killed  Jevon  first  and 
been  hanged  for  it.  Mrs.  Deemes  drew  her  pencil 
through  all  the  dances  that  I  had  booked  with  her,  and 
went  away,  leaving  me  to  remember  that  what  I  ought  to 
have  said  was  that  Mrs.  Deemes  had  asked  to  be  intro- 
duced to  Jevon  because  he  danced  well;  and  that  I  really 
had  not  carefully  worked  out  a  plot  to  insult  her.  But  I 
realised  that  argument  was  no  good,  and  that  I  had  better 
try  to  stop  Jevon  from  waltzing  me  into  more  trouble. 
He,  however,  was  gone,  and  every  third  dance  I  set  off  to 
hunt  for  him.  This  ruined  what  little  pleasure  I  ex- 
pected from  the  entertainment. 

Just  before  supper  I  caught  him,  at  the  buffet  with  his 
legs  wide  apart,  talking  to  a  very  fat  and  indignant 
chaperone.  '  If  this  person  is  a  friend  of  yours,  as  I  under- 
stand he  is,  I  would  recommend  you  to  take  him  home,' 
said  she.  *  He  is  unfit  for  decent  society.'  Then  I  knew 
that  goodness  only  knew  what  Jevon  had  been  doing,  and 
I  tried  to  get  him  away. 

But  Jevon  wasn't  going;  not  he.  He  knew  what  was 
good  for  him,  he  did;  and  he  wasn't  going  to  be  dictated  to 
by  any  loconial  nigger-driver,  he  wasn't;  and  I  was  the 
friend  who  had  formed  his  infant  mind  and  brought  him 
up  to  buy  Benares  brassware  and  fear  God  so  I  was;  and 
we  would  have  many  more  blazing  good  drunks  together, 
so  we  would;  and  all  the  she-camels  in  black  silk  in  the 


A  FRIEND'S  FRIEND  963 

world  shouldn't  make  him  withdraw  his  opinion  that 
there  was  nothing  better  than  Benedictine  to  give  one  an 
appetite.    And  then     .     .     .    but  he  was  my  guest. 

I  set  him  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  supper-room,  and 
went  to  find  a  wall-prop  that  I  could  trust.  There  was  a 
good  and  kindly  Subaltern — may  Heaven  bless  that  Sub- 
altern, and  make  him  a  Commander-in-Chief! — who 
heard  of  my  trouble.  He  was  not  dancing  himself,  and 
he  owned  a  head  like  a  five-year-old  teak-baulks.  He  said 
that  he  would  look  after  Jevon  till  the  end  of  the  ball. 

*  Don't  suppose  you  much  mind  what  I  do  with  him?' 
said  he. 

'Mind!'  said  I.  'No!  You  can  murder  the  beast  if 
you  like.' 

But  the  Subaltern  did  not  murder  him.  He  trotted  ofit 
to  the  supper-room,  and  sat  down  by  Jevon,  drinking  peg 
for  peg  with  him.  I  saw  the  two  fairly  established,  and 
went  away,  feeling  more  easy. 

When  'The  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England'  sounded,  I 
heard  of  Jevon's  performances  between  the  first  dance  and 
my  meeting  with  him  at  the  buffet.  After  Mrs.  Deemes 
had  cast  him  off,  it  seems  that  he  had  found  his  way  into 
the  gallery,  and  offered  to  conduct  the  Band  or  to  play 
any  instrument  in  it  just  as  the  Bandmaster  pleased. 

When  the  Bandmaster  refused,  Jevon  said  that  he 
wasn't  appreciated,  and  he  yearned  for  sympathy.  So  he 
tnmdled  downstairs  and  sat  out  four  dances  with  four 
girls,  and  proposed  to  three  of  them.  One  of  the  girls 
was  a  married  woman,  by  the  way.  Then  he  went  into 
the  whist-room,  and  fell  face-down  and  wept  on  the 
hearth-rug  in  front  of  the  fire,  because  he  had  fallen  into  z 
den  of  card-sharpers,  and  his  Mamma  had  always  warned 


264  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

him  against  bad  company.  He  had  done  a  lot  of  other 
things,  too,  and  had  taken  about  three  quarts  of  mixed 
liquors.  Besides  speaking  of  me  in  the  most  scandalous 
fashion! 

All  the  women  wanted  him  turned  out,  and  all  the  men 
wanted  him  kicked.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that  every  one 
said  it  was  my  fault.  Now,  I  put  it  to  you,  how  on  earth 
could  I  have  known  that  this  mnocent,  fluffy  T.  G.  would 
break  out  in  this  disgusting  manner?  You  see  he  had 
gone  round  the  world  nearly,  and  his  vocabulary  of  abuse 
was  cosmopoHtan,  though  mainly  Japanese  which  he  had 
picked  up  in  a  low  tea-house  at  Hakodate.  It  sounded 
like  whistling. 

While  I  was  Hstening  to  first  one  man  and  then  another 
telling  me  of  Jevon's  shameless  behaviour  and  asking  me 
for  his  blood,  I  wondered  where  he  was.  I  was  prepared 
to  sacrifice  him  to  Society  on  the  spot. 

But  Jevon  was  gone,  and,  far  away  in  the  corner  of  the 
supper-room,  sat  my  dear,  good  Subaltern,  a  Uttle  flushed, 
eating  salad.  I  went  over  and  said,  '  Where's  Jevon? ' — 
*In  the  cloakroom,'  said  the  Subaltern.  'He'll  keep  till 
the  women  have  gone.  Don't  you  interfere  with  my 
prisoner.'  I  didn't  want  to  interfere,  but  I  peeped  into 
the  cloakroom,  and  found  my  guest  put  to  bed  on  some 
rolled-up  carpets,  all  comfy,  his  collar  free,  and  a  wet 
swab  on  his  head. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  I  spent  in  timid  attempts  to  ex- 
plain things  to  Mrs.  Deemes  and  three  or  four  other 
ladies,  and  trying  to  clear  my  character — for  I  am  a 
respectable  man — from  the  shameful  slurs  that  my  guest 
had  cast  upon  it.   Libel  was  no  word  for  what  he  had  said. 

When  I  wasn't  trying  to  explain,  I  was  running  off  to 


A  FRIEND'S  FRIEND  265 

the  cloakroom  to  see  that  Jevon  wasn't  dead  of  apoplexy. 
I  didn't  want  him  to  die  on  my  hands.  He  had  eaten  my 
salt. 

At  last  that  ghastly  ball  ended,  though  I  was  not 
in  the  least  restored  to  Mrs.  Deemes'  favour.  When 
the  ladies  had  gone,  and  some  one  was  calling  for  songs 
at  the  second  supper,  that  angelic  Subaltern  told  the 
servants  to  bring  in  the  Sahih  who  was  in  the  cloak- 
room, and  clear  away  one  end  of  the  supper-table. 
While  this  was  being  done,  we  formed  ourselves  into  a 
Board  of  Punishment  with  the  Doctor  for  President. 

Jevon  came  in  on  four  men's  shoulders,  and  was  put 
down  on  the  table  like  a  corpse  in  a  dissecting-room, 
while  the  Doctor  lectured  on  the  evils  of  intemperance 
and  Jevon  snored.     Then  we  set  to  work. 

We  corked  the  whole  of  his  face.  We  filled  his  hair 
with  meringue-cream  till  it  looked  like  a  white  wig.  To 
protect  everything  till  it  dried,  a  man  in  the  Ordnance 
Department,  who  understood  the  work,  luted  a  big 
blue-paper  cap  from  a  cracker,  with  meringue-cream, 
low  down  on  Jevon's  forehead.  This  was  punishment, 
not  play,  remember.  We  took  the  gelatine  of  crackers, 
and  stuck  blue  gelatine  on  his  nose,  and  yellow  gelatine  on 
his  chin,  and  green  and  red  gelatine  on  his  cheeks,  press- 
ing each  dab  down  till  it  held  as  firm  as  goldbeaters'  skin. 

We  put  a  ham-frill  round  his  neck,  and  tied  it  in  a 
bow  in  front.     He  nodded  like  a  mandarin. 

We  fixed  gelatine  on  the  back  of  his  hands,  and  burnt- 
corked  them  inside,  and  put  small  cutlet-frills  round 
his  wrists,  and  tied  both  wrists  together  with  string.  We 
waxed  up  the  ends  of  his  moustache  with  isinglass.  He 
looked  very  martial. 


s66  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

We  turned  him  over,  pinned  up  his  coat-tails  be- 
tween his  shoulders,  and  put  a  rosette  of  cutlet-frills 
there.  We  took  up  the  red  cloth  from  the  ball-room 
to  the  supper-room,  and  wound  him  up  in  it.  There 
were  sixty  feet  of  red  cloth,  six  feet  broad;  and  he  rolled 
up  into  a  big  fat  bundle,  with  only  that  amazing  head 
sticking  out. 

Lastly,  we  tied  up  the  surplus  of  the  cloth  beyond 
his  feet  with  cocoanut-fibre  string  as  tightly  as  we  knew 
how.    We  were  so  angry  that  we  hardly  laughed  at  all. 

Just  as  we  finished,  we  heard  the  rumble  of  bullock- 
carts  taking  away  some  chairs  and  things  that  the 
General's  wife  had  lent  for  the  ball.  So  we  hoisted 
Jevon,  like  a  roll  of  carpets,  into  one  of  the  carts,  and 
the  carts  went  away. 

Now  the  most  extraordinary  part  of  this  tale  is  that 
never  again  did  I  see  or  hear  anything  of  Jevon,  T.  G. 
He  vanished  utterly.  He  was  not  delivered  at  the 
General's  house  with  the  carpets.  He  just  went  into  the 
black  darkness  of  the  end  of  the  night,  and  was  swallowed 
up.     Perhaps  he  died  and  was  thrown  into  the  river. 

But,  alive  or  dead,  I  have  often  wondered  how  he 
got  rid  of  the  red  cloth  and  the  meringue-cream.  I 
wonder  still  whether  Mrs.  Deemes  will  ever  take  any 
notice  of  me  again,  and  whether  I  shall  live  down  the 
infamous  stories  that  Jevon  set  afloat  about  my  man- 
ners and  customs  between  the  first  and  the  ninth  waltz 
of  the  Afghan  Ball.     They  stick  closer  than  cream. 

Wherefore,  I  want  Tranter  of  the  Bombay  side,  dead 
or  alive.    But  dead  for  preference. 


THE  GATE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  SORROWS 

If  I  can  attain  Heaven  for  a  pice,  why  should  you  be  envious? 

— Opium  Smoker's  Proverb. 

This  is  no  work  of  mine.  My  friend,  Gabral  Misquitta, 
the  half-caste,  spoke  it  all,  between  moonset  and  morn- 
ing, six  weeks  before  he  died;  and  I  took  it  down  from 
his  mouth  as  he  answered  my  questions.     So: — 

It  lies  between  the  Coppersmith's  Gully  and  the 
pipe-stem  sellers'  quarter,  within  a  hundred  yards,  too. 
as  the  crow  flies,  of  the  Mosque  of  Wazir  Khan.  1 
don't  mind  telling  any  one  this  much,  but  I  defy  hin? 
to  find  the  Gate,  however  well  he  may  think  he  knows 
the  City.  You  might  even  go  through  the  very  gully 
it  stands  in  a  hundred  times,  and  be  none  the  wiser. 
We  used  to  call  the  gully,  'The  Gully  of  the  Black 
Smoke,'  but  its  native  name  is  altogether  different  of 
course.  A  loaded  donkey  couldn't  pass  between  the 
walls;  and,  at  one  point,  just  before  you  reach  the 
Gate,  a  bulged  house-front  makes  people  go  along  all 
sideways. 

It  isn't  really  a  gate,  though.  It's  a  house.  Old 
Fung-Tching  had  it  first  five  years  ago.  He  was  a 
boot-maker  in  Calcutta.  They  say  that  he  murdered 
his  wife  there  when  he  was  drunk.  That  was  why  he 
dropped  bazar-rum  and  took  to  the  Black  Smoke  instead. 
Later  on,  he  came  up  north  and  opened  the  Gate  as  a 

z^7 


a68  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

house  where  you  could  get  your  smoke  in  peace  and 
quiet.  Mind  you,  it  was  a  pukka ^  respectable  opium- 
house,  and  not  one  of  those  stifling,  sweltering  chandoo- 
khanas,  that  you  can  find  all  over  the  City.  No;  the 
old  man  knew  his  business  thoroughly,  and  he  was 
most  clean  for  a  Chinaman.  He  was  a  one-eyed  Httle 
chap,  not  much  more  than  five  feet  high,  and  both  his 
middle  fingers  were  gone.  All  the  same,  he  was  the 
handiest  man  at  rolling  black  pills  I  have  ever  seen. 
Never  seemed  to  be  touched  by  the  Smoke,  either;  and 
what  he  took  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  was  a 
caution.  I've  been  at  it  five  years,  and  I  can  do  my 
fair  share  of  the  Smoke  with  any  one;  but  I  was  a  child 
to  Fung-Tching  that  way.  All  the  same,  the  old  man 
was  keen  on  his  money:  very  keen;  and  that's  what 
I  can't  understand.  I  heard  he  saved  a  good  deal 
before  he  died,  but  his  nephew  has  got  all  that  now  and 
the  old  man's  gone  back  to  China  to  be  buried. 

He  kept  the  big  upper  room,  where  his  best  cus- 
tomers gathered,  as  neat  as  a  new  pin.  In  one  corner 
used  to  stand  Fung-Tching's  Joss — almost  as  ugly  as 
Fung-Tching — and  there  were  always  sticks  burning 
under  his  nose;  but  you  never  smelt  'em  when  the  pipes 
were  going  thick.  Opposite  the  Joss  was  Fung-Tching's 
coffin.  He  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  savings  on  that, 
and  whenever  a  new  man  came  to  the  Gate  he  was 
always  introduced  to  it.  It  was  lacquered  black,  with 
red  and  gold  writings  on  it,  and  I've  heard  that  Fung- 
Tching  brought  it  out  all  the  way  from  China.  I  don't 
know  whether  that's  true  or  not,  but  I  know  that,  if  I 
came  first  in  the  evening,  I  used  to  spread  my  mat  just 
at  the  foot  of  it.    It  was  a  quiet  comer,  you  see,  and  a 


THE  GATE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  SORROWS  269 

sort  of  breeze  from  the  gully  came  in  at  the  window  now 
and  then.  Besides  the  mats,  there  was  no  other  furni- 
ture in  the  room — only  the  coffin,  and  the  old  Joss  all 
green  and  blue  and  purple  with  age  and  poHsh. 

Fung-Tching  never  told  us  why  he  called  the  place '  The 
Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows.'  (He  was  the  only  China- 
man I  know  who  used  bad-sounding  fancy  names.  Most 
of  them  are  flowery.  As  you'll  see  in  Calcutta.)  We 
used  to  find  that  out  for  ourselves.  Nothing  grows  on 
you  so  much,  if  you're  white,  as  the  Black  Smoke.  A 
yellow  man  is  made  different.  Opium  doesn't  tell  on  him 
scarcely  at  all;  but  white  and  black  suffer  a  good  deal. 
Of  course,  there  are  some  people  that  the  Smoke  doesn't 
touch  any  more  than  tobacco  would  at  first.  They  just 
doze  a  bit,  as  one  would  fall  asleep  naturally,  and  next 
morning  they  are  almost  fit  for  work.  Now,  I  was  one  oi 
that  sort  when  I  began,  but  I've  been  at  if  for  five  years 
pretty  steadily,  and  it's  different  now.  There  was  an  old 
aunt  of  mine,  down  Agra  way,  and  she  left  me  a  Httle  at 
her  death.  About  sixty  rupees  a  month  secured.  Sixty 
isn't  much.  I  can  recollect  a  time,  'seems  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  that  I  was  getting  my  three 
hundred  a  month,  and  pickings,  when  I  was  working  on  a 
big  timber-contract  in  Calcutta. 

I  didn't  stick  to  that  work  for  long.  The  Black  Smoke 
does  not  allow  of  much  other  business;  and  even  though  I 
am  very  little  affected  by  it,  as  men  go,  I  couldn't  do  a 
day's  work  now  to  save  my  life.  After  all,  sixty  rupees  is 
what  I  want.  When  old  Fung-Tching  was  ahve  he  used 
to  draw  the  money  for  me,  give  me  about  half  of  it  to  live 
on  (I  eat  very  little) ,  and  the  rest  he  kept  himself.  I  was 
free  of  the  Gate  at  any  time  of  the  day  and  night,  and 


270  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

could  smoke  and  sleep  there  when  I  liked,  so  I  didn*t 
care,  I  know  the  old  man  made  a  good  thing  out  of  it; 
but  that's  no  matter.  Nothing  matters  much  to  me;  and 
besides,  the  money  always  came  fresh  and  fresh  each 
month. 

There  was  ten  of  us  met  at  the  Gate  when  the  place  was 
first  opened.  Me,  and  two  Baboos  from  a  Government 
Office  somewhere  in  Anarkulli,  but  they  got^the  sack  and 
couldn't  pay  (no  man  who  has  to  work  m  the  dayHght  can 
do  the  Black  Smoke  for  any  length  of  time  straight  on) ;  a 
Chinaman  that  was  Fung-Tching's  nephew;  a  bazar- 
woman  that  had  got  a  lot  of  money  somehow;  an  EngHsh 
loafer — MacSomebody  I  think,  but  I  have  forgotten — 
that  smoked  heaps,  but  never  seemed  to  pay  anything, 
(they  said  he  had  saved  Fung-Tching's  Hfe  at  some  trial  iri 
Calcutta  when  he  was  a  barrister) ;  another  Eurasian,  like 
myself,  from  Madras;  a  half-caste  woman,  and  a  couple  of 
men  who  said  they  had  come  from  the  North.  I  think 
they  must  have  been  Persians  or  Afghans  or  something. 
There  are  not  more  than  five  of  us  living  now,  but  we 
come  regular.  I  don't  know  what  happened  to  the 
Baboos;  but  the  bazar-woman  she  died  after  six  months  of 
the  Gate,  and  I  think  Fung-Tching  took  her  bangles  and 
nose-ring  for  himself.  But  I'm  not  certain.  The  English- 
man, he  drank  as  well  as  smoked,  and  he  dropped  off. 
One  of  the  Persians  got  killed  in  a  row  at  night  by  the  big 
well  near  the  mosque  a  long  time  ago,  and  the  Police  shut 
up  the  well,  because  they  said  it  was  full  of  foul  air.  They 
found  him  dead  at  the  bottom  of  it.  So  you  see,  there  is 
only  me,  the  Chinaman,  the  half-caste  woman  that  we 
call  the  Memsahib  (she  used  to  five  with  lung-Tching), 
^e  o|her  Eurasian,  and  one  of  the  Persians.    The  Mem- 


,  THE  GATE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  SORROWS  271 

sahih  looks  very  old  now.  I  think  she  was  a  young 
woman  when  the  Gate  was  opened;  but  we  are  all  old  for 
the  matter  of  that.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  old. 
It  is  very  hard  to  keep  account  of  time  in  the  Gate,  and, 
besides,  time  doesn't  matter  to  me.  I  draw  my  sixty 
rupees  fresh  and  fresh  every  month.  A  very,  very  long 
while  ago,  when  I  used  to  be  getting  three  hundred  and 
fifty  rupees  a  month,  and  pickings,  on  a  big  timber- 
contract  at  Calcutta,  I  had  a  wife  of  sorts.  But  she's 
dead  now.  People  said  that  I  killed  her  by  taking  to  the 
Black  Smoke.  Perhaps  I  did,  but  it's  so  long  since  that 
it  doesn't  matter.  Sometimes  when  I  first  came  to  the 
Gate,  I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  it;  but  that's  all  over  and 
done  with  long  ago,  and  I  draw  my  sixty  rupees  fresh  and 
fresh  every  month,  and  am  quite  happy.  Not  drunk 
happy,  you  know,  but  always  quiet  and  soothed  and  con- 
tented. 

How  did  I  t^e  to  it?  It  began  at  Calcutta.  I  used  to 
try  it  in  my  own  house,  just  to  see  what  it  was  like.  I 
never  went  very  far,  but  I  think  my  wife  must  have  died 
then.  Anyhow,  I  found  myself  here,  and  got  to  know 
Fung-Tching.  I  don't  remember  rightly  how  that  came 
about;  but  he  told  me  of  the  Gate  and  I  used  to  go  there, 
and,  somehow,  I  have  never  got  away  from  it  since. 
Mind  you,  though,  the  Gate  was  a  respectable  place  in 
Fung-Tching's  time  where  you  could  be  comfortable,  and 
not  at  all  like  the  chandoo-khanas  where  the  niggers  go. 
No;  it  was  clean  and  quiet,  and  not  crowded.  Of  course, 
there  were  others  besides  us  ten  and  the  man;  but  we 
always  had  a  mat  apiece,  with  a  wadded  woollen  head- 
piece, all  covered  with  black  and  red  dragons  and  things; 
just  like  the  coffin  in  the  corner. 


272  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

At  the  end  of  one's  third  pipe  the  dragons  used  to  move 
about  and  fight.  I've  watched  'em  many  and  many  a 
night  through.  I  used  to  regulate  my  Smoke  that  way, 
and  now  it  takes  a  dozen  pipes  to  make  'em  stir.  Besides, 
they  are  all  torn  and  dirty,  like  the  mats,  and  old  Fung- 
Tching  is  dead.  He  died  a  couple  of  years  ago,  and  gave 
me  the  pipe  I  always  use  now — a  silver  one,  with  queer 
beasts  crawling  up  and  down  the  receiver-bottle  below  the 
cup.  Before  that,  I  think,  I  used  a  big  bamboo  stem 
with  a  copper  cup,  a  very  small  one  and  a  green  jade 
mouthpiece.  It  was  a  little  thicker  than  a  walking-stick 
stem,  and  smoked  sweet,  very  sweet.  The  bamboo 
seemed  to  suck  up  the  smoke.  Silver  doesn't,  and  I've 
got  to  clean  it  out  now  and  then,  that's  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  but  I  smoke  it  for  the  old  man's  sake.  He  must 
have  made  a  good  thing  out  of  me,  but  he  always  gave  me 
clean  mats  and  pillows,  and  the  best  stuff  you  could  get 
anywhere. 

When  he  died,  his  nephew  Tsin-Ung  took  up  the  Gate, 
and  he  called  it  the  'Temple  of  the  Three  Possessions'; 
but  we  old  ones  speak  of  it  as  the  ^Hundred  Sorrows,'  all 
the  same.  The  nephew  does  things  very  shabbily,  and  I 
think  the  Memsahib  must  help  him.  She  lives  with  him; 
same  as  she  used  to  do  with  the  old  man.  The  two  let  in 
all  sorts  of  low  people,  niggers  and  all,  and  the  Black 
Smoke  isn't  as  good  as  it  used  to  be.  I've  found  burnt 
bran  in  my  pipe  over  and  over  again.  The  old  man  would 
have  died  if  that  had  happened  in  his  time.  Besides,  the 
room  is  never  cleaned,  and  all  the  mats  are  torn  and  cut  at 
the  edges.  The  coffin  is  gone — gone  to  China  again — 
with  the  old  man  and  two  ounces  of  Smoke  inside  it,  in 
case  he  should  want  'em  on  the  way. 


THE  GATE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  SORROWS  273 

The  Joss  doesn't  get  so  many  sticks  burnt  under  his 
nose  as  he  used  to;  that's  a  sign  of  ill-luck,  as  sure  as 
Death.  He's  all  brown,  too,  and  no  one  ever  attends  to 
him.  That's  the  Memsahib's  work,  I  know;  because, 
when  Tsin-ling  tried  to  bum  gilt  paper  before  him,  she 
said  it  was  a  waste  of  money,  and,  if  he  kept  a  stick 
burning  very  slowly,  the  Joss  wouldn't  know  the  differ- 
ence. So  now  we've  got  the  sticks  mixed  with  a  lot  of 
glue,  and  they  take  half  an  hour  longer  to  bum,  and  smell 
stinky.  Let  alone  the  smell  of  the  room  by  itself.  No 
business  can  get  on  if  they  try  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
Joss  doesn't  Uke  it.  I  can  see  that.  Late  at  night,  some- 
times, he  turns  all  sorts  of  queer  colours — blue  and  green 
and  red — just  as  he  used  to  do  when  old  Fung-Tching 
was  aHve;  and  he  rolls  his  eyes  and  stamps  his  feet  like  a 
devil. 

I  don't  know  why  I  don't  leave  the  place  and  smoke 
quietly  in  a  little  room  of  my  own  in  the  bazar.  Most 
like,  Tsin-ling  would  kill  me  if  I  went  away — he  draws  my 
sixty  mpees  now — and  besides,  it's  so  much  trouble,  and 
I've  grown  to  be  very  fond  of  the  Gate.  It's  not  much  to 
look  at.  Not  what  it  was  in  the  old  man's  time,  but  I 
couldn't  leave  it.  I've  seen  so  many  come  in  and 
out.  And  I've  seen  so  many  die  here  on  the  mats 
that  I  should  be  afraid  of  dying  in  the  open  now.  I've 
seen  some  things  that  people  would  call  strange  enough; 
but  nothing  is  strange  when  you're  on  the  Black  Smoke, 
except  the  Black  Smoke.  And  if  it  was,  it  wouldn't 
matter.  Fung-Tching  used  to  be  very  particular  about 
his  people,  and  never  got  in  any  one  who'd  give  trouble  by 
dying  messy  and  such.  But  the  nephew  isn't  half  so 
careful.    He  tells  everywhere  that  he  keeps  a  'first-chop ' 


274  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

house.  Never  tries  to  get  men  in  ([uietly,  and  make  them 
comfortable  like  Fung-Tching  did.  That's  why  the  Gate 
is  getting  a  little  bit  more  known  than  it  used  to  be. 
Among  the  niggers  of  course.  The  nephew  daren't  get  a 
white,  or,  for  matter  of  that,  a  mixed  skin  into  the  place. 
He  has  to  keep  us  three  of  course — me  and  the  Memsahib 
and  the  other  Eurasian.  We're  fixtures.  But  he  wouldn't 
give  us  credit  for  a  pipeful — not  for  anything. 

One  of  these  days,  I  hope,  I  shall  die  in  the  Gate.  The 
Persian  and  the  Madras  man  are  terribly  shaky  now. 
They  Ve  got  a  boy  to  Hght  their  pipes  for  them.  I  always 
do  that  myself.  Most  like,  I  shall  see  them  carried  out 
before  me.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  outlive  the  Mem- 
sahib or  Tsin-ling.  Women  last  longer  than  men  at  the 
Black  Smoke,  and  Tsin-ling  has  a  deal  of  the  old 
man's  blood  in  him,  though  he  does  smoke  cheap  stuff. 
The  bazar-woman  knew  when  she  was  going  two  days  be- 
fore her  time;  and  she  died  on  a  clean  mat  with  a  nicely 
wadded  pillow,  and  the  old  man  hung  up  her  pipe  just 
above  the  Joss.  He  was  always  fond  of  her,  I  fancy. 
But  he  took  her  bangles  just  the  same. 

I  should  like  to  die  like  the  bazar-woman — on  a  clean ^ 
cool  mat  with  a  pipe  of  good  stuff  between  my  lips.  When 
I  feel  I'm  going,  I  shall  ask  Tsin-ling  for  them,  and  he  can 
draw  my  sixty  rupees  a  month,  fresh  and  fresh,  as  long  as 
he  pleases.  Then  I  shall  lie  back,  quiet  and  comfortable, 
and  watch  the  black  and  red  dragons  have  their  last  big 
fight  together;  and  then    .     .     . 

Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nothing  matters  much  to  me 
— only  I  wish  Tsin-ling  wouldn't  put  bran  into  the  Black 
Smoke. 


THE  MADNESS  OF  PRIVATE  ORTHERIS 

Oh!    Where  would  I  be  when  my  froat  was  dry? 
Oh!    Where  would  I  be  when  the  bullets  fly? 
Oh!    Where  would  I  be  when  I  come  to  die? 

Why, 
Somewheres  anigh  my  chum. 

If  'e's  liquor  'e'll  give  me  some, 

If  I'm  dyin'  'e'll  'old  my  'ead, 

An'  'e'll  write  'em  'Ome  when  I'm  dead.— 

Gawd  send  us  a  trusty  chum! 

— Barrack-Room  Ballad. 

My  friends  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  had  gone  on  a  shoot- 
ing-expedition for  one  day.  Learoyd  was  still  in  hospital, 
recovering  from  fever  picked  up  in  Burma.  They  sent  me 
an  invitation  to  join  them,  and  were  genuinely  pained 
when  I  brought  beer — almost  enough  beer  to  satisfy  two 
Privates  of  the  Line     .     .     .     and  Me. 

"Twasn't  for  that  we  bid  you  welkim,  Sorr/  said  Mul- 
vaney, sulkily.    '  'Twas  for  the  pleasure  av  your  company.' 

Ortheris  came  to  the  rescue  with — 'Well,  'e  won^t  be 
none  the  worse  for  bringin'  liquor  with  'im.  We  ain*t  a 
file  o'  Dooks.  We're  bloomin'  Tommies,  ye  cantankris 
Hirishman ;  an'  'eres  your  very  good  'ealth ! '  i 

We  shot  all  the  forenoon,  and  killed  two  pariah-dogs, 
four  green  parrots,  sitting,  one  kite  by  the  burning-ghaut, 
one  snake  flying,  one  mud-turtle,  and  eight  crows. 
Game  was  plentiful.  Then  we  sat  down  to  tiffin — *  bull- 
ays 


276  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

mate  an'  bran-bread/  Mulvaney  called  it — by  the  side  of 
the  river,  and  took  pot  shots  at  the  crocodiles  in  the  in- 
tervals of  cutting  up  the  food  with  our  only  pocket-knife. 
Then  we  drank  up  all  the  beer,  and  threw  the  bottles  into 
the  v/ater  and  fired  at  them.  After  that,  we  eased  belts 
and  stretched  ourselves  on  the  warm  sand  and  smoked. 
We  were  too  lazy  to  continue  shooting. 

Ortheris  heaved  a  big  sigh,  as  he  lay  on  his  stomach 
with  his  head  between  his  fists.  Then  he  swore  quietly 
into  the  blue  sky. 

'  Fwhat's  that  for?  '  said  Mulvaney.  '  Have  ye  not 
drunk  enough?' 

'  Tott'nim  Court  Road,  an'  a  gal  I  fancied  there.  Wot's 
the  good  of  sodgerin'? ' 

*  Orth'ris,  me  son,'  said  Mulvaney,  hastily,  *  'tis  more 
than  likely  you've  got  throuble  in  your  inside  wid 
the  beer.  I  feel  that  way  mesilf  whin  my  liver  gets 
rusty.' 

Ortheris  went  on  slowly,  not  heeding  the  interruption — 

'I'm  a  Tommy — a  bloomin',  eight-anna,  dog-stealin' 
Tommy,  with  a  number  instead  of  a  decent  name.  Wot's 
the  good  o'  me?  If  I  'ad  a  stayed  at  'Ome,  I  might  a  mar- 
ried that  gal  and  a  kep'  a  little  shorp  in  the  'Ammersmith 
'Igh.— *'S.  Orth'ris,  Prac-ti-cal  Taxi-der-mist."  With 
a  stuff'  fox,  like  they  'as  in  the  Haylesbury  Dairies,  in 
the  winder,  an'  a  little  case  of  blue  and  yaller  glass-heyes, 
an'  a  little  wife  to  call  "shorp!"  ''shorp!"  when  the  door- 
bell rung.  As  it  his,  I'm  on'y  a  Tommy — a  Bloomin', 
Gawd-forsaken,  Beer-swillin'  Tommy.  "Rest  on  your 
harms — 'versed.  Stan'  at — hease;  'Shun.  'Verse — harms, 
Rightan'lef '—/arm.  Slow — march.  'Alt—front.  Rest 
on  your  harms — 'versed.    With  blank-cartridge — load,'^ 


THE  MADNESS  OF  PRIVATE  ORTHERIS  377 

An'  that's  the  end  o'  me.'  He  was  quoting  fragments  from 
Funeral  Parties'  Orders. 

'Stop  ut!'  shouted  Mulvaney.  *Whin  you've  fired 
into  nothin'  as  often  as  me,  over  a  better  man  than  your- 
silf,  you  will  not  make  a  mock  av  thim  orders.  'Tis 
worse  than  whistlin'  the  Dead  March  in  barricks.  An' 
you  full  as  a  tick,  an'  the  sun  cool,  an'  all  an'  all!  I  take 
shame  for  you.  You're  no  better  than  a  Pagin — you  an* 
your  firin'  parties  an'  your  glass-eyes.  Won't  you  stop  ut, 
Sorr?' 

What  could  I  do?  Could  I  tell  Ortheris  anything  that 
he  did  not  know  of  the  pleasures  of  his  life?  I  was  not  a 
Chaplain  nor  a  Subaltern,  and  Ortheris  had  a  right  to 
speak  as  he  thought  fit. 

'  Let  him  run,  Mulvaney,'  I  said.     *  It's  the  beer.' 

*No!  'Tisn't  the  beer,'  said  Mulvaney.  *I  know 
fwhat's  comin'.  He's  tuk  this  way  now  an'  agin,  an'  it's 
bad — it's  bad — for  I'm  fond  av  the  bhoy.' 

Indeed,  Mulvaney  seemed  needlessly  anxious;  but  I 
knew  that  he  looked  after  Ortheris  in  a  fatherly  way. 

'Let  me  talk,  let  me  talk,  said  Ortheris,  dreamily. 
'D'you  stop  your  parrit  screamin'  of  a  'ot  day,  when  the 
cage  is  a-cookin'  'is  pore  little  pink  toes  orf ,  Mulvaney? ' 

'  Pink  toes !  D'ye  mane  to  say  you've  pink  toes  undher 
your  buUswools,  ye  blandanderin',' — Mulvaney  gathered 
himself  together  for  a  terrific  denunciation — 'school- 
misthressl  Pink  toes!  How  much  Bass  wid  the  label 
did  that  ravin'  child  dhrink? ' 

' 'Tain't  Bass,'  said  Ortheris.  'It's  a  bitterer  beer  nor 
that.    It's  'ome-sickness ! ' 

'Hark  to  him!  An'  he  goin'  Home  in  the  Sherapis  in 
the  inside  av  four  months ! ' 


^78  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

^I  don't  care.  It's  all  one  to  me.  'Ow  d'you  know 
I  ain't  'fraid  o'  dyin'  'for  I  gets  my  discharge  paipers?' 
He  recommenced,  in  a  sing-song  voice,  the  Orders. 

I  had  never  seen  this  side  of  Ortheris'  character  before, 
but  evidently  Mulvaney  had,  and  attached  serious  im- 
portance to  it.  While  Ortheris  babbled,  with  his  head  on 
his  arms,  Mulvaney  whispered  to  me — 

'He's  always  tuk  this  way  whin  he's  been  checked  over- 
much by  the  childher  they  make  Sarjints  nowadays.  That 
an'  havin'  nothin'  to  do.     I  can't  make  ut  out  anyways.* 

'Well,  what  does  it  matter?  Let  him  talk  himsell 
through.' 

Ortheris  began  singing  a  parody  of  *The  Ramrod 
Corps,'  full  of  cheerful  allusions  to  battle,  murder,  and 
sudden  death.  He  looked  out  across  the  river  as  he  sang: 
and  his  face  was  quite  strange  to  me.  Mulvaney  caugh^ 
me  by  the  elbow  to  insure  attention. 

'Matther?  It  matthers  everything!  'Tis  some  sort 
av  fit  that's  on  him.  I've  seen  ut.  'Twill  hould  him  all 
this  night,  an'  in  the  middle  av  it  he'll  get  out  av  his  cot 
an'  go  rakin'  in  the  rack  for  his  'coutremints.  Thin  he'll 
come  over  to  me  an'  say,  "I'm  goin'  to  Bombay.  Answer 
for  me  in  the  mornin'."  Thin  me  an'  him  will  fight  as 
we've  done  before — him  to  go  an'  me  to  hould  him — an' 
so  we'll  both  come  on  the  books  for  disturbin'  in  barricks. 
I've  belted  him,  an'  I've  bruk  his  head,  an'  I've  talked  to 
him,  but  'tis  no  manner  av  use  whin  the  fit's  on  him.  He's 
as  good  a  bhoy  as  ever  stepped  whin  his  mind's  clear.  I 
know  f what's  comin',  though,  this  night  in  barricks. 
Lord  send  he  doesn't  loose  on  me  whin  I  rise  to  knock  him 
down.     'Tis  that  that's  in  my  mind  day  an'  night.* 

This  put  the  case  in  a  much  less  pleasant  light,  and 


I 


i 


THE  MADNESS  OF  PRIVATE  ORTHERIS  279 

fully  accounted  for  Mulvaney's  anxiety.  He  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  coax  Ortheris  out  of  the  fit;  for  he  shouted 
down  the  bank  where  the  boy  was  lying — 

*  Listen  now,  you  wid  the  "pore  pink  toes"  an'  the  glass- 
eyes  !  Did  you  shwim  the  Irriwaddy  at  night,  behin'  me, 
asabhoy  shud;or  were  you  hidin'  under  a  bed,  as  you 
was  at  Ahmid  Kheyl? ' 

This  was  at  once  a  gross  insult  and  a  direct  lie,  and  Mul- 
vaney  meant  it  to  bring  on  a  fight.  But  Ortheris  seemed 
shut  up  in  some  sort  of  a  trance.  He  answered  slowly, 
without  a  sign  of  irritation,  in  the  same  cadenced  voice  as 
he  had  used  for  his  firing-party  orders — 

'Hi  swum  the  Irriwaddy  in  the  night,  as  you  know,  for 
to  take  the  town  of  Lungtungpen,  nakid  an'  without  fear. 
Hand  where  I  was  at  Ahmed  Kheyl  you  know,  and  four 
bloomin'  Pathans  know  too.  But  that  was  summat  to 
do,  an'  I  didn't  think  o'  dyin'.  Now  I'm  sick  to  go  'Ome — 
— go  'Ome — go  'Ome!  No,  I  ain't  mammysick,  because 
my  uncle  brung  me  up,  but  I'm  sick  for  London  again ;  sick 
for  the  sounds  of  'er,  an'  the  sights  of  'er,  and  the  stinks  of 
'er;  orange-peel  and  hasphalte  an'  gas  comin'  in  over 
Vaux'all  Bridge.  Sick  for  the  rail  goin'  down  to  Box  '111, 
with  your  gal  on  your  knee  an'  a  new  clay  pipe  in  your 
face.  That,  an'  die  Stran'  lights  where  you  knows  ev'ry 
one,  an'  the  Copper  that  takes  you  up  is  a  old  friend  that 
tuk  you  up  before,  when  you  was  a  little,  smitchy  boy 
lying  loose  'tween  the  Temple  an'  the  Dark  Harches.  No 
bloomin'  guard-mountin',  no  bloomin'  rotten-stone,  nor 
khaki,  an'  yourself  your  own  master  with  a  gal  to  take  an' 
see  the  Humaners  practisin'  a-hookin'  dead  corpses  out  of 
the  Serpentine  o'  Sundays.  An'  I  lef '  all  that  for  to  serve 
the  Widder  beyond  the  seas,  where  there  ain't  no  women 


38o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

and  there  ain^t  no  liquor  worth  'avin',  and  there  ain't 
nothin'  to  see,  nor  do,  nor  say,  nor  feel,  nor  think.  Lord 
love  you,  Stanley  Orth'ris,  but  you're  a  bigger  bloomin' 
fool  than  the  rest  o'  the  reg'ment  and  Mulvaney  wired  to- 
gether! There's  the  Widder  sittin'  at  'Ome  with  a  gold 
crown  on  'er  'ead;  and  'ere  am  Hi,  Stanley  Orth'ris,  the 
Widder's  property,  a  rottin'  fool  I ' 

His  voice  rose  at  the  end  of  the  sentence,  and  he  wound 
up  with  a  six-shot  Anglo-Vernacular  oath.  Mulvaney 
said  nothing,  but  looked  at  me  as  if  he  expected  that  I 
could  bring  peace  to  poor  Ortheris'  troubled  brain. 

I  remembered  once  at  Rawal  Pindi  having  seen  a  man, 
nearly  mad  with  drink,  sobered  by  being  made  a  fool  of. 
Some  regiments  may  know  what  I  mean.  I  hoped  that 
we  might  slake  off  Ortheris  in  the  same  way,  though  he 
was  perfectly  sober.    So  I  said — 

'What's  the  use  of  grousing  there,  speaking  against  The 
Widow?' 

*I  didn't!'  said  Ortheris.  'S'elp  me.  Gawd,  I  never 
said  a  word  agin  'er,  an'  I  wouldn't — not  if  I  was  to 
desert  this  minute ! ' 

Here  was  my  opening.  'Well,  you  meant  to,  anyhow. 
What's  the  use  of  cracking-on  for  nothing?  Would  you 
slip  it  now  if  you  got  the  chance? ' 

'  On'y  try  me ! '  said  Ortheris,  jumping  to  his  feet  as  if  he 
had  been  stung. 

Mulvaney  jumped  too.  '  Fwhat  are  you  going  to  do? ' 
said  he. 

'Help  Ortheris  down  to  Bombay  or  Karachi,  whichever 
he  likes.  You  can  report  that  he  separated  from  you  be- 
fore tiffin,  and  left  his  gun  on  the  bank  here ! ' 

'I'm  to  report  that— am  I?'  said  Mulvaney,  slowly. 


THE  MADNESS  OF  PRIVATE  ORTHERIS  281 

'Very  well.  If  Orth'ris  manes  to  desert  now,  and  will 
desert  now,  an'  you,  Sorr,  who  have  been  a  frind  to  me  an* 
to  him,  will  help  him  to  ut,  I,  Terence  Mulvaney,  on  my 
oath  which  I've  never  bruk  yet,  will  report  as  you  say. 

But '  here  he  stepped  up  to  Ortheris,  and  shook  the 

stock  of  the  fowling-piece  in  his  face — 'y^^^  fistes  help 
you,  Stanley  Orth'ris,  if  ever  I  come  across  you  agin  1 ' 

*I  don't  care!'  said  Ortheris.  'I'm  sick  o'  this  dorg's 
life.   Give  me  a  chanst  Don't  play  with  me.  Le'mego!' 

'Strip,'  said  I,  'and  change  with  me,  and  then  I'll  tell 
you  what  to  do.' 

I  hoped  that  the  absurdity  of  this  would  check  Ortheris; 
but  he  had  kicked  off  his  ammunition-boots  and  got  rid  of 
his  tunic  almost  before  I  had  loosed  my  shirt-collar. 
Mulvaney  gripped  me  by  the  arm — 

'  The  fit's  on  him :  the  fit's  workin'  on  him  still !  By  my 
Honour  and  Sowl,  we  shall  be  accessiry  to  a  desartion  yet. 
Only,  twenty-eight  days,  as  you  say,  Sorr,  or  fifty-six,  but 
think  o'  the  shame — the  black  shame  to  him  an'  me!'  I 
had  never  seen  Mulvaney  so  excited. 

But  Ortheris  was  quite  calm,  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  ex- 
changed clothes  with  me,  and  I  stood  up  a  Private  of  the 
Line,  he  said  shortly,  'Now!  Come  on.  What  nex'? 
D'ye  mean  fair.  What  must  I  do  to  get  out  o'  this  'ere 
a-HeU?' 

I  told  him  that,  if  he  would  wait  for  two  or  three  hours 
near  the  river,  I  would  ride  into  the  Station  and  come  back 
with  one  hundred  rupees.  He  would,  with  that  money  in 
his  pocket,  walk  to  the  nearest  side-station  on  the  line, 
about  five  miles  away,  and  would  there  take  a  first-class 
ticket  for  Karachi.  Knowing  that  he  had  no  money  on 
him  when  he  weat  out  shooting,  his  regiment  would  not 


..82  .    PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Immediately  wire  to  the  seaports,  but  would  hunt  for 
him  in  the  native  villages  near  the  river.  Further,  no 
one  would  think  of  seeking  a  deserter  in  a  first-class  car- 
riage. At  Karachi,  he  was  to  buy  white  clothes  and  ship, 
if  he  could,  on  a  cargo-steamer. 

Here  he  broke  in.  If  I  helped  him  to  Karachi,  he  would 
arrange  all  the  rest.  Then  I  ordered  him  to  wait  where 
he  was  until  it  was  dark  enough  for  me  to  ride  into  the 
Station  without  my  dress  being  noticed.  Now  God  in 
His  Wisdom  has  made  the  heart  of  the  British  Soldier, 
who  is  very  often  an  unlicked  ruffian,  as  soft  as  the  heart 
of  a  Httle  child,  in  order  that  he  may  believe  in  and  follow 
his  officers  into  tight  and  nasty  places.  He  does  not  so 
readily  come  to  beHeve  in  a  '  civilian,'  but,  when  he  does, 
he  believes  implicitly  and  like  a  dog.  I  had  had  the  honour 
of  the  friendship  of  Private  Ortheris,  at  intervals,  for  more 
than  three  years,  and  we  had  dealt  with  each  other  as 
man  by  man.  Consequently,  he  considered  that  all  my 
words  were  true,  and  not  spoken  lightly. 

Mulvaney  and  I  left  him  in  the  high  grass  near  the 
river-bank,  and  went  away,  still  keeping  to  the  high  grass, 
towards  my  horse.     The  shirt  scratched  me  horribly. 

We  waited  nearly  two  hours  for  the  dusk  to  fall  and 
allow  me  to  ride  off.  We  spoke  of  Qitheris  in  whispers, 
and  strained  our  ears  to  catch  any  sound  from  the  spot 
where  we  had  left  him.  But  we  heard  nothing  except  the 
wind  in  the  plume-grass. 

'I've  bruk  his  head,'  said  Mulvaney,  earnestly,  Hime 
an'  agin.  "  I've  nearly  kilt  him  wid  the  belt,  an'  yet  I  can't 
knock  thim  fits  out  av  his  soft  head.  No!  An' he's  not 
soft,  for  he's  reasonable  an'  likely  by  natur'.  Fwhat  is 
ut?    Is  ut  his  breedin'  which  is  nothin',  or  his  edukashin 


i 


THE  MADNESS  OF  PRIVATE  ORTHERIS  283 

which  he  niver  got?  You  that  think  ye  know  things, 
answer  me  that/ 

But  I  found  no  answer.  I  was  wondering  how  long 
Ortheris,  in  the  bank  of  the  river,  would  hold  out,  and 
whether  I  should  be  forced  to  help  him  to  desert,  as  I  had 
given  my  word. 

Just  as  the  dusk  shut  down  and,  with  a  very  heavy 
heart,  I  was  beginning  to  saddle  up  my  horse,  we  heard 
wild  shouts  from  the  river. 

The  devils  had  departed  from  Private  Stanley  Ortheris, 
No.  22639,  B  Company.  The  loneliness,  the  dusk,  and 
the  waiting  had  driven  them  out  as  I  had  hoped.  We  set 
off  at  the  double  and  found  him  plunging  about  wildly 
through  the  grass,  with  his  coat  off — my  coat  off,  I  mean. 
He  was  calling  for  us  like  a  madman. 

When  we  reached  him  he  was  dripping  with  perspira- 
tion, and  trembling  like  a  startled  horse.  We  had  great 
difficulty  in  soothing  him.  He  complained  that  he  was  in 
civilian  kit,  and  wanted  to  tear  my  clothes  off  his  body.  I 
ordered  him  to  strip,  and  we  made  a  second  exchange  as 
quickly  as  possible. 

The  rasp  of  his  own  'grayback^  shirt  and  the  squeak  of 
his  boots  seemed  to  bring  him  to  himself.  He  put  his 
hands  before  his  eyes  and  said — 

'Wot  was  it?  I  ain't  mad,  I  ain't  sunstrook,  an'  I've 
bin  an'  done  an'  said,  and  bin  an'  gone  an'  done  .  .  . 
Wot  'ave  I  bin  an'  done? ' 

'  Fwhat  have  you  done? '  said  Mulvaney.  *  You've  dish- 
graced  yourself — though  that's  no  matter.  You've  dish- 
graced  B  Comp'ny,  an',  worst  av  all,  you've  dishgraced 
Me  I  Me  that  taught  you  how  for  to  walk  abroad  like  a 
man — whin  you  was  a  dhirty  little,  fish-backed  little, 


ag4  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

whimperin'  little  recruity.  As  vou  are  now,  Stanley 
Orth^ris'/ 

Ortheris  said  nothing  for  a  while.  Then  he  unslung  his 
belt,  heavy  with  the  badges  of  half  a  dozen  regiments  that 
bis  own  had  lain  with,  and  handed  it  over  to  Mulvaney. 

'I'm  too  little  for  to  mill  you,  Mulvaney,'  said  he,  'an' 
you've  strook  me  before;  but  you  can  take  an'  cut  me  in 
two  with  this  'ere  if  you  like.' 

Mulvaney  turned  to  me. 

'Lave  me  to  talk  to  him,  Son*,'  said  Mulvaney. 

I  left,  and  on  my  way  home  thought  a  good  deal  over 
Ortheris  in  particular,  and  my  friend  Private  Thomas 
Atkins,  whom  I  love,  in  general. 

But  I  could  not  come  to  any  conclusion  of  any  kind 
whatever. 


THE  STORY  OF  MUHAMMAD  DIN 

Who  is  the  happy  man?  He  that  sees  in  his  own  house  at  home,  little 
children  crowned  with  dust,  leaping  and  falling  and  crying. — Muni' 
chaftdra,  translated  by  Professor  Peterson. 

The  polo-ball  was  an  old  one,  scarred,  chipped,  and 
dinted.  It  stood  on  the  mantelpiece  among  the  pipe- 
stems  which  Imam  Din,  khitmcdgarj  was  cleaning  for 
me. 

'Does  the  Heaven-born  want  this  ball?'  said  Imam 
Din,  deferentially. 

The  Heaven-bom  set  no  particular  store  by  it;  but  of 
what  use  was  a  polo-ball  to  dr  khitmatgar  ?     /  f '  >  < 

*  By  Your  Honour's  favour,  I  have  a  little  son.  He  has 
seen  this  ball,  and  desires  it  to  play  with.  I  do  not  want 
it  for  myself.' 

No  one  would  for  an  instant  accuse  portly  old  Imam 
Din  of  wanting  to  play  with  polo-balls.  He  carried  out 
the  battered  thing  into  the  verandah;  and  there  followed 
a  hurricane  of  joyful  squeaks,  a  patter  of  small  feet,  and 
the  thtd-thud-thud  of  the  ball  rolling  along  the  ground. 
Evidently  the  little  son  had  been  waiting  outside  the  door 
to  secure  his  treasure.  But  how  had  he  managed  to  see 
that  polo-ball? 

Next  day,  coming  back  from  office  half  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual,  I  was  aware  of  a  small  figure  in  the  dining- 
room — a  tiny,  plump  figure  in  a  ridiculously  inadequate" 

2fS 


386  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

shirt,  which  came,  perhaps,  halfway  down  the  tubby 
stomach.  It  wandered  round  the  room,  thumb  in  mouth, 
crooning  to  itself  as  it  took  stock  of  the  pictures.  Un- 
doubtedly this  was  the  ^Httle  son.' 

He  had  no  business  in  my  room,  of  course;  but  was  so 
deeply  absorbed  in  his  discoveries  that  he  never  noticed 
me  in  the  doorway.  I  stepped  into  the  room  and  startled 
him  nearly  into  a  fit.  He  sat  down  on  the  ground  with  a 
gasp.  His  eyes  opened,  and  his  mouth  followed  suit.  I 
knew  what  was  coming,  and  fled,  followed  by  a  long,  dry 
howl  which  reached  the  servants'  quarters  far  more 
quickly  than  any  command  of  mine  had  ever  done.  In 
ten  seconds  Imam  Din  was  in  the  dining-room.  Then 
despairing  sobs  arose,  and  I  returned  to  find  Imam  Din 
admonishing  the  small  sinner,  who  was  using  most  of  his 
shirt  as  a  handkerchief. 

'This  boy,'  said  Imam  Din,  judicially,  *is  a  budmash—a. 
big  hudmash.  He  will,  without  doubt,  go  to  thejail-khana 
for  his  behaviour.'  Renewed  yells  from  the  penitent  and 
an  elaborate  apology  to  myself  from  Imam  Din. 

'  Tell  the  baby,'  I  said, '  that  the  Sahib  is  not  angry,  and 
take  him  away.'  Imam  Din  conveyed  my  forgiveness  to 
the  offender,  who  had  now  gathered  all  his  shirt  round  his 
neck,  stringwise,  and  the  yell  subsided  into  a  sob.  The 
two  set  off  for  the  door.  'His  name,'  said  Imam  Dm,  as 
though  the  name  were  part  of  the  crime,  'is  Muhammad 
Dm,  and  he  is  a  budmash'  Freed  from  present  danger, 
Muhammad  Dm  turned  round  in  liis  father's  arms,  and 
said  gravely, '  It  is  true  that  my  name  is  Muhammad  Din, 
Tahib,  but  I  am  not  a  budmash.    I  am  a  man  I ' 

From  that  day  dated  my  acquaintance  with  Muham- 
mad Din.    Never  again  did  he  come  into  my  dining-room, 


THE  STORY  OF  MUHAMMAD  DIN  287 

but  on  the  neutral  ground  of  the  garden,  we  greeted  each 
other  with  much  state,  though  our  conversation  was  con- 
nned  to  ^Talaam,  Tahib'  from  his  side,  and  'Salaam^ 
Muhammad  Din^  from  mine.  Daily  on  my  return  from 
office,  the  Httle  white  shirt  and  the  fat  little  body  used 
to  rise  from  the  shade  of  the  creeper-covered  trellis  where 
they  had  been  hid;  and  daily  I  checked  my  horse  here, 
that  my  salutation  might  not  be  slurred  over  or  given  un- 
seemly. 

Muhammad  Din  never  had  any  companions.  He  used 
to  trot  about  the  compound,  in  and  out  of  the  castor-oil 
bushes,  on  mysterious  errands  of  his  own.  One  day  I 
stumbled  upon  some  of  his  handiwork  far  down  the 
grounds.  He  had  half  buried  the  polo-ball  in  dust,  and 
stuck  six  shrivelled  old  marigold  flowers  in  a  circle  round 
it.  Outside  that  circle  again  was  a  rude  square,  traced 
out  in  bits  of  red  brick  alternating  with  fragments  of 
broken  china;  the  whole  bounded  by  a  little  bank  of  dust. 
The  water-man  from  the  well-curb  put  in  a  plea  for  the 
small  architect,  saying  that  it  was  only  the  play  of  a  baby 
and  did  not  much  disfigure  my  garden. 

Heaven  knows  that  I  had  no  intention  of  touching  the 
child's  work  then  or  later;  but,  that  evening,  a  stroll 
through  the  garden  brought  me  unawares  full  on  it;  so 
that  I  trampled,  before  I  knew,  marigold-heads,  dust- 
bank,  and  fragments  of  broken  soap-dish  into  confusion 
past  all  hope  of  mending.  Next  morning,  I  came  upon 
Muhammad  Din  crying  softly  to  himself  over  the  ruin  I 
had  wrought.  Some  one  had  cruelly  told  him  that  the 
Sahib  was  very  angry  with  him  for  spoiling  the  garden, 
and  had  scattered  his  rubbish,  using  bad  language  the 
while.    Muhammad  Din  laboured  for  an  hour  at  effacing 


288  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

every  trace  of  the  dust-bank  and  pottery  fragments,  and 
it  was  with  a  tearful  and  apologetic  face  that  he  said, 
'  Talaam,  Tahih'  when  I  came  home  from  office.  A  hasty 
inquiry  resulted  in  Imam  Din  informing  Muhammad  Din 
that,  by  my  singular  favour,  he  was  permitted  to  disport 
himself  as  he  pleased.  Whereat  the  child  took  heart  and 
fell  to  tracing  the  ground-plan  of  an  edifice  which  was  to 
eclipse  the  marigold-polo-ball  creation. 

For  some  months,  the  chubby  Httle  eccentricity  re- 
volved in  his  humble  orbit  among  the  castor-oil  bushes 
and  in  the  dust;  always  fashioning  magnificent  palaces 
from  stale  flowers  thrown  away  by  the  bearer,  smooth 
water- worn  pebbles,  bits  of  broken  glass,  and  feathers 
pulled,  I  fancy,  from  my  fowls — always  alone,  and 
always  crooning  to  himself. 

A  gaily  spotted  sea-shell  was  dropped  one  day  close  to 
the  last  of  his  Httle  buildings;  and  I  looked  that  Muham- 
mad Din  should  build  something  more  than  ordinarily 
splendid  on  the  strength  of  it.  Nor  was  I  disappointed. 
He  meditated  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour,  and  his  croon- 
ing rose  to  a  jubiliant  song.  Then  he  began  tracing  in 
the  dust.  It  would  certainly  be  a  wondrous  palace,  this 
one,  for  it  was  two  yards  long  and  a  yard  broad  in  groimd- 
plan.     But  the  palace  was  never  completed. 

Next  day  there  was  no  Muhammad  Din  at  the  head  of 
the  carriage-drive  and  no '  Talaam^  Tahih '  to  welcome  my 
return.  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  greeting,  and  its 
omission  troubled  me.  Next  day  Imam  Din  told  me  that 
the  child  was  suffering  sHghtly  from  fever  and  needed 
quinine.   He  got  the  medicine,  and  an  Enghsh  Doctor. 

'  They  have  no  stamina,  these  brats,'  said  the  Doctor,  as 
he  left  Imam  Din's  quarters. 


THE  STORY  OF  MUHAMMAD  DIN  289 

A  week  later,  though  I  would  have  given  much  to  have 
avoided  it,  I  met  on  the  road  to  the  Mussulman  burying' 
ground  Imam  Din,  accompanied  by  one  other  friend, 
carrying  in  his  arms,  wrapped  in  a  white  cloth,  all  that 
<vas  left  of  little  Muhammad  Din. 


ON  THE  STRENGTH  OF  A  LIKENESS 

If  your  mirror  be  broken,  look  into  still  water;  but  have  a  care  that  you 
do  not  fall  in. — Hindu  Proverb. 

Next  to  a  requited  attachment,  one  of  the  most  con- 
venient things  that  a  young  man  can  carry  about  with 
him  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  is  an  unrequited  at- 
tachment. It  makes  him  feel  important  and  businesslike, 
and  blase,  and  cynical;  and  whenever  he  has  a  touch  of 
liver,  or  suffers  from  want  of  exercise,  he  can  mourn  over 
his  lost  love,  and  be  very  happy  in  a  tender,  twilight 
fashion. 

Hannasyde's  affair  of  the  heart  had  been  a  godsend  to 
him.  It  was  four  years  old,  and  the  girl  had  long  since 
given  up  thinking  of  it.  She  had  married  and  had  many 
cares  of  her  own.  In  the  beginning,  she  had  told  Hanna- 
syde  that,  'while  she  could  never  be  anything  more  than  a 
sister  to  him,  she  would  always  take  the  deepest  interest 
in  his  welfare.^  This  startlingly  new  and  original  remark 
gave  Hannasyde  something  to  think  over  for  two  years; 
and  his  own  vanity  filled  in  the  other  twenty-four  months. 
Hannasyde  was  quite  different  from  Phil  Garron,  but, 
none  the  less,  had  several  points  in  common  with  that  far 
too  lucky  man. 

He  kept  his  unrequited  attachment  by  him  as  men  keep 
a  well-smoked  pipe — for  comfort's  sake,  and  because  it 
had  grown  dear  in  the  using.     It  brought  him  happily 

290 


ON  THE  STRENGTH  OF  A  LIKENESS  291 

through  one  Simla  season.  Hannasyde  was  not  lovely. 
There  was  a  crudity  in  his  manners,  and  a  roughness  in 
the  way  in  which  he  helped  a  lady  on  to  her  horse,  that  did 
not  attract  the  other  sex  to  him.  Even  if  he  had  cast 
about  for  their  favour,  which  he  did  not.  He  kept  his 
wounded  heart  all  to  himself  for  a  while. 

Then  trouble  came  to  him.  All  who  go  to  Simla  know 
the  slope  from  the  Telegraph  to  the  Public  Works  Office. 
Hannasyde  was  loafing  up  the  hill,  one  September  morn- 
ing between  caUing  hours,  when  a  'rickshaw  came  down  in 
a  hurry,  and  in  the  'rickshaw  sat  the  living,  breathing  im- 
age of  the  girl  who  had  made  him  so  happily  unhappy. 
Hannasyde  leaned  against  the  railings  and  gasped.  He 
wanted  to  run  downhill  after  the  'rickshaw,  but  that  was 
impossible;  so  he  went  forward  with  most  of  his  blood  in 
his  temples.  It  was  impossible,  for  many  reasons,  that 
the  woman  in  the  'rickshaw  could  be  the  girl  he  had 
known.  She  was,  he  discovered  later,  the  wife  of  a  man 
from  Dindigul,  or  Coimbatore,  or  some  out-of-the-way 
place,  and  she  had  come  up  to  Simla  early  in  the  season 
for  the  good  of  her  health.  She  was  going  back  to 
Dindigul,  or  wherever  it  was,  at  the  end  of  the  season;  and 
in  all  hkehhood  would  never  return  to  Simla  again;  her 
proper  Hill-station  being  Ootacamund.  That  night 
Hannasyde,  raw  and  savage  from  the  raking  up  of  all  old 
feelings,  took  counsel  with  himself  for  one  measured  hour. 
What  he  decided  upon  was  this;  and  you  must  decide  for 
yourself  how  much  genuine  affection  for  the  old  Love,  and 
how  much  a  very  natural  inclination  to  go  abroad  and 
enjoy  himself,  affected  the  decision.  Mrs.  Landys-Hag- 
gert  would  never  in  all  human  likelihood  cross  his  path 
again.   So  whatever  he  did  didn't  much  matter.    She  was 


292  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

marvellously  like  the  girl  who  'took  a  deep  interest^  ana 
the  rest  of  the  formula.  All  things  considered,  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert,  and  for  a  little  time — only  a  very  Kttle  time— to 
make  believe  that  he  was  with  Alice  Chisane  again.  Every 
one  is  more  or  less  mad  on  one  point.  Hannasyde's  par- 
ticular monomania  was  his  old  love,  Alice  Chisane. 

He  made  it  his  busmess  to  get  introduced  to  Mrs. 
Haggert,  and  the  introduction  prospered.  He  also  made 
it  his  business  to  see  as  much  as  he  could  of  that  lady. 
When  a  man  is  in  earnest  as  to  interviews,  the  facilities 
which  Simla  offers  are  startling.  There  are  garden- 
parties,  and  tennis-parties,  and  picnics,  and  luncheons  at 
Annandale,  and  rifle-matches,  and  dinners  and  balls; 
besides  rides  and  walks,  which  are  matters  of  private 
arrangement.  Hannasyde  had  started  with  the  intention 
of  seeing  a  Hkeness,  and  he  ended  by  doing  much  more. 
He  wanted  to  be  deceived,  he  meant  to  be  deceived,  and 
he  deceived  himself  very  thoroughly.  Not  only  were  the 
face  and  figure  the  face  and  figure  of  AUce  Chisane,  but 
the  voice  and  lower  tones  were  exactly  the  same,  and  so 
were  the  turns  of  speech;  and  the  little  mannerisms,  that 
every  woman  has,  of  gait  and  gesticulation,  were  abso- 
lutely and  identically  the  same.  The  turn  of  the  head 
was  the  same;  the  tired  look  in  the  eyes  at  the  end  of  a 
long  walk  was  the  same;  the  stoop-and-wrench  over  the 
saddle  to  hold  in  a  pulling  horse  was  the  same;  and  once, 
most  marvellous  of  all,  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  singing  to 
herself  in  the  next  room,  while  Hannasyde  was  waiting  to 
take  her  for  a  ride,  hummed,  note  for  note,  with  a  throaty 
quiver  of  the  voice  in  the  second  line,  'Poor  Wandering 
One!'  exactly  as  Alice  Chisane  had  hummed  it  for  Han- 


ON  THE  STRENGTH  OF  A  LIKENESS  293 

nasyde  in  the  dusk  of  an  English  drawing-room.  In  the 
actual  woman  herself — in  the  soul  of  her — there  was  not 
the  least  likeness;  she  and  Alice  Chisane  being  cast  in 
different  moulds.  But  all  that  Hannasyde  wanted  to 
know  and  see  and  think  about,  was  this  maddening  and 
perplexing  likeness  of  face  and  voice  and  manner.  He 
was  bent  on  making  a  fool  of  himself  that  way;  and  he 
was  in  no  sort  disappointed. 

Open  and  obvious  devotion  from  any  sort  of  man  is 
always  pleasant  to  any  sort  of  woman;  but  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert,  being  a  woman  of  the  world,  could  make  nothing 
of  Hannasyde's  admiration. 

He  would  take  any  amount  of  trouble — he  was  a  selfish 
man  habitually — to  meet  and  forestall,  if  possible,  her 
wishes.  Anything  she  told  him  to  do  was  law;  and  he 
was,  there  could  be  no  doubting  it,  fond  of  her  company  so 
long  as  she  talked  to  him,  and  kept  on  talking  about 
trivialities.  But  when  she  launched  into  expression  of 
her  personal  views  and  her  wrongs,  those  small  social  dif- 
ferences that  make  the  spice  of  Simla  Ufe,  Hannasyde  was 
neither  pleased  nor  interested.  He  didn't  want  to  know 
anything  about  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  or  her  experiences 
in  the  past — she  had  travelled  nearly  all  over  the  world, 
and  could  talk  cleverly — he  wanted  the  likeness  of  Alice 
Chisane  before  his  eyes  and  her  voice  in  his  ears.  Any- 
thing outside  that,  reminding  him  of  another  personality, 
jarred,  and  he  showed  that  it  did. 

Under  the  new  Post  Office,  one  evening,  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert  turned  on  him,  and  spoke  her  mind  shortly  and 
without  warning.  'Mr.  Hannasyde,'  said  she,  ^will  you 
be  good  enough  to  explain  why  you  have  appointed  your- 
self my  special  cavalier  servente  ?     I  don't  understand  it 


C94  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

But  I  am  perfectly  certain,  somehow  or  other,  that  you 
don't  care  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world  for  me.^  This 
seems  to  support,  by  the  way,  the  theory  that  no  man 
can  act  or  tell  lies  to  a  woman  without  being  found 
out.  Hannasyde  was  taken  off  his  guard.  His  defence 
never  was  a  strong  one,  because  he  was  always  think- 
ing of  himself,  and  he  blurted  out,  before  he  knew 
what  he  was  saying,  this  inexpedient  answer,  ^No  more 
I  do.' 

The  queemess  of  the  situation  and  the  reply,  made  Mrs. 
Landys-Haggert  laugh.  Then  it  all  came  out;  and  at  the 
end  of  Hannasyde's  lucid  explanation  Mrs.  Haggert  said, 
with  the  least  little  touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice,  *  So  I'm  to 
act  as  the  lay-figure  for  you  to  hang  the  rags  of  your 
tattered  affections  on,  am  I? ' 

Hannasyde  didn't  see  what  answer  was  required,  and 
he  devoted  himself  generally  and  vaguely  to  the  praise  of 
Alice  Chisane,  which  was  unsatisfactory.  Now  it  is  to  be 
thoroughly  made  clear  that  Mrs.  Haggert  had  not  the 
shadow  of  a  ghost  of  an  interest  in  Hannasyde.  Only 
.     .     .     only  no  woman  likes  being  made  love  through 

instead  of  to specially  on  behalf  of  a  musty  divinity  of 

four  years'  standing. 

Hannasyde  did  not  see  that  he  had  made  any  very  par- 
ticular exhibition  of  himself.  He  was  glad  to  find  a  sym- 
pathetic soul  in  the  arid  wastes  of  Simla. 

When  the  season  ended,  Hannasyde  went  down  to 
his  own  place  and  Mrs.  Haggert  to  hers.  'It  was  like 
making  love  to  a  ghost,'  said  Hannasyde  to  himself,  'and 
it  doesn't  matter;  and  now  I'll  get  to  my  work.'  But  he 
found  himself  thinking  steadily  of  the  Haggert-Chisane 
ghost;  and  he  could  not  be  certain  whether  it  was  Hag- 


ON  THE  STRENGTH  OF  A  LIKENESS  295 

gert  or  Chisane  that  made  up  the  greater  part  of  the 
pretty  phantom. 


He  got  understanding  a  month  later. 

A  peculiar  point  of  this  pecuHar  country  is  the  way  in 
which  a  heartless  Government  transfers  men  from  one 
end  of  the  Empire  to  the  other.  You  can  never  be 
sure  of  getting  rid  of  a  friend  or  an  enemy  till  he 
or  she  dies.  There  was  a  case  once — but  that's  another 
story. 

Haggert's  Department  ordered  him  up  from  Dindigul 
to  the  Frontier  at  two  days'  notice,  and  he  went  through, 
losing  money  at  every  step,  from  Dindigul  to  his  station. 
He  dropped  Mrs.  Haggert  at  Lucknow,  to  stay  with  some 
friends  there,  to  take  part  in  a  big  ball  at  the  Chutter 
Munzil,  and  to  come  on  when  he  had  made  the  new 
home  a  little  comfortable.  Lucknow  was  Hannasyde's 
station,  and  Mrs.  Haggert  stayed  a  week  there.  Han- 
nasyde  went  to  meet  her.  As  the  train  came  in,  he  dis- 
covered what  he  had  been  thinking  of  for  the  past  month. 
The  unwisdom  of  his  conduct  also  struck  him.  The 
Lucknow  week,  with  two  dances,  and  an  unlimited  quan- 
tity of  rides  together,  clinched  matters;  and  Hannasyde 
found  himself  pacing  this  circle  of  thought: — He  adored 
Alice  Chisane,  at  least  he  had  adored  her.  And  he  ad- 
mired Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  because  she  was  like  Alice 
Chisane.  But  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  was  not  in  the  least 
like  AHce  Chisane,  being  a  thousand  times  more  adorable. 
Now  Alice  Chisane  was  '  the  bride  of  another,'  and  so  was 
Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  and  a  good  and  honest  wife  too. 
Therefore  he»  Hannasyde,  was    .    ,    .    here  he  called 


S96  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

himself  several  hard  names,  and  wished  that  he  had  been 
wise  in  the  beginning. 

Whether  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  saw  what  was  going  on 
in  his  mind,  she  alone  knows.  He  seemed  to  take  an  un- 
qualified interest  in  everything  connected  with  herself,  as 
distinguished  from  the  Alice-Chisane  likeness,  and  he  said 
one  or  two  things  wliich,  if  Alice  Chisane  had  been  still 
betrothed  to  him,  could  scarcely  have  been  excused,  even 
on  the  grounds  of  the  Hkeness.  But  Mrs.  Haggert  turned 
the  remarks  aside,  and  spent  a  long  time  in  making 
Hannasyde  see  what  a  comfort  and  a  pleasure  she  had 
been  to  him  because  of  her  strange  resemblance  to  his  old 
love.  Hannasyde  groaned  in  his  saddle  and  said,  'Yes, 
indeed,'  and  busied  himself  with  preparations  for  her  de- 
parture to  the  Frontier,  feeling  very  small  and  miserable. 

The  last  day  of  her  stay  at  Lucknow  came,  and  Han- 
nasyde saw  her  off  at  the  Railway  Station.  She  was  very 
grateful  for  his  kindness  and  the  trouble  he  had  taken,  and 
smiled  pleasantly  and  sympathetically  as  one  who  knew 
the  Alice-Chisane  reason  of  that  kindness.  And  Han- 
nasyde abused  the  coolies  with  the  luggage,  and  hustled 
the  people  on  the  platform,  and  prayed  that  the  roof  might 
fall  in  and  slay  him. 

As  the  train  went  out  slowly,  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert 
leaned  out  of  the  window  to  say  good-bye — 'On  second 
thoughts  au  revoir,  Mr.  Hannasyde.  I  go  Home  in  the 
Spring,  and  perhaps  I  may  meet  you  in  Town.' 

Hannasyde  shook  hands,  and  said  very  earnestly  and 
adoringly — 'I  hope  to  Heaven  I  shall  never  see  your  face 
again!' 

And  Mrs.  Haggert  understood. 


WRESSLEY  OF  THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE 

I  closed  and  drew  for  my  Love's  sake, 

That  now  is  false  to  me, 
And  I  slew  the  Riever  of  Tarrant  Moss, 

And  set  Dumeny  free. 

And  ever  they  give  me  praise  and  gold, 

And  ever  I  moan  my  loss; 

For  I  struck  the  blow  for  my  false  Love's  sake, 

And  not  for  the  men  of  the  Moss! 

— Tarrant  Moss. 

One  of  the  many  curses  of  our  life  in  India  is  the  want  of 
atmosphere  in  the  painter's  sense.  There  are  no  half-tints 
worth  noticing.  Men  stand  out  all  crude  and  raw,  with 
nothing  to  tone  them  down,  and  nothing  to  scale  them 
against.  They  do  their  work,  and  grow  to  think  that 
there  is  nothing  but  their  work,  and  nothing  Hke  their 
work,  and  that  they  are  the  real  pivots  on  which  the 
Administration  turns.  Here  is  an  instance  of  this  feeling. 
A  half-caste  clerk  was  ruling  forms  in  a  Pay  Office.  He 
said  to  me,  'Do  you  know  what  would  happen  if  I  added 
or  took  away  one  single  line  on  this  sheet? '  Then,  with 
the  air  of  a  conspirator, '  It  would  disorganise  the  whole  of 
the  Treasury  payments  throughout  the  whole  of  the 
Presidency  Circle !    Think  of  tha t ! ' 

If  men  had  not  this  delusion  as  to  the  ultra-importance 
of  their  own  particular  employments,  I  suppose  that  they 

297 


29$  I>LAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

would  sit  down  and  kill  themselves.  But  their  weakness 
is  wearisome,  particularly  when  the  listener  knows  that 
he  himself  commits  exactly  the  same  sin. 

Even  the  Secretariat  believes  that  it  does  good  when  it 
asks  an  over-driven  Executive  Officer  to  take  a  census  of 
wheat  weevils  through  a  district  of  five  thousand  square 
miles. 

There  was  a  man  once  in  the  Foreign  Office — a  man 
who  had  grown  middle-aged  in  the  Department,  and  was 
commonly  said,  by  irreverent  juniors,  to  be  able  to  repeat 
Atchison's  Treaties  and  Sunnuds  backwards  in  his  sleep. 
What  he  did  with  his  stored  knowledge  only  the  Secretary 
knew;  and  he,  naturally,  would  not  publish  the  news 
abroad.  This  man's  name  was  Wressley,  and  it  was  the 
Shibboleth,  in  those  days,  to  say — 'Wressley  knows  more 
about  the  Central  Indian  States  than  any  living  man.'  If 
you  did  not  say  this,  you  were  considered  one  of  mean 
understanding. 

Nowadays,  the  man  who  says  that  he  knows  the  ravel 
of  the  inter-tribal  complications  across  the  Border  is 
of  more  use;  but,  in  Wressley's  time,  much  attention 
was  paid  to  the  Central  Indian  States.  They  were 
called  'foci'  and  'factors,'  and  all  manner  of  imposing 
names. 

And  here  the  curse  of  Anglo-Indian  Hfe  fell  heavily. 
When  Wressley  Hfted  up  his  voice,  and  spoke  about  such- 
and-such  a  succession  to  such-and-such  a  throne,  the 
Foreign  Office  were  silent,  and  Heads  of  Departments  re- 
peated the  last  two  or  three  words  of  Wressley's  sentences, 
and  tacked  'yes,  yes,'  on  to  them,  and  knew  that  they 
were  assisting  the  Empire  to  grapple  with  serious  political 
contingencies.    In  most  big  undertakings,  one  or  two 


WRESSLEY  OF  THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE  299 

men  do  the  work  while  the  rest  sit  near  and  talk  till  the 
ripe  decorations  begin  to  fall. 

Wressley  was  the  working  member  of  the  Foreign 
Office  firm,  and,  to  keep  him  up  to  his  duties  when  he 
showed  signs  of  flagging,  he  was  made  much  of  by  his 
superiors  and  told  what  a  fine  fellow  he  was.  He  did  not 
require  coaxing,  because  he  was  of  tough  build,  but  what 
he  received  confirmed  him  in  the  belief  that  there  was  no 
one  quite  so  absolutely  and  imperatively  necessary  to  the 
stabiHty  of  India  as  Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office. 
There  might  be  other  good  men,  but  the  known,  honoured, 
and  trusted  man  among  men  was  Wressley  of  the  Foreign 
Office.  We  had  a  Viceroy  in  those  days  who  knew 
exactly  when  to  ^gentle'  a  fractious  big  man,  and  to 
hearten-up  a  collar-galled  Httle  one,  and  so  keep  all  his 
team  level.  He  conveyed  to  Wressley  the  impression 
which  I  have  just  set  down;  and  even  tough  men  are  apt 
to  be  disorganised  by  a  Viceroy's  praise.  There  was  a 
case  once — but  that  is  another  story. 

All  men  knew  Wressley's  name  and  office — it  was  in 
Thacker  and  Spink's  Directory — ^but  who  he  was  person- 
ally, or  what  he  did,  or  what  his  special  merits  were,  not 
fifty  men  knew  or  cared.  His  work  filled  all  his  time,  and 
he  found  no  leisure  to  cultivate  acquaintances  beyond 
those  of  dead  Rajput  chiefs  with  Ahir  blots  in  their 
scutcheons.  Wressley  would  have  made  a  very  good 
Clerk  in  the  Herald's  College  had  he  not  been  a  Bengal 
Civilian. 

Upon  a  day,  between  office  and  office,  great  trouble 
came  to  Wressley — overwhelmed  him,  knocked  him 
down,  and  left  him  gasping  as  though  he  had  been  a  little 
schoolboy.    Without  reason,  against  prudence,  and  at  a 


300  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

moment's  notice,  he  fell  in  love  with  a  frivolous,  golden- 
haired  girl  who  used  to  tear  about  Simla  Mall  on  a  high, 
rough  Waler,  with  a  blue  velvet  jockey-cap  crammed  over 
her  eyes.  Her  name  was  Venner — Tillie  Venner — and 
she  was  dehghtful.  She  took  Wressley's  heart  at  a  hand- 
gallop,  and  Wressley  found  that  it  was  not  good  for  man 
to  live  alone;  even  with  half  the  Foreign  Office  Records  in 
his  presses. 

Then  Simla  laughed,  for  Wressley  in  love  was  slightly 
ridiculous.  He  did  his  best  to  interest  the  girl  in  himself 
— that  is  to  say,  his  work — and  she,  after  the  manner  of 
women,  did  her  best  to  appear  interested  in  what,  behind 
his  back,  she  called  *  Mr.  W'essley's  Wajahs '  ;for  she  lisped 
very  prettily.  She  did  not  understand  one  little  thing 
about  them,  but  she  acted  as  if  she  did.  Men  have 
married  on  that  sort  of  error  before  now. 

Providence,  however,  had  care  of  Wressley.  He  was 
immensely  struck  with  Miss  Venner's  intelligence.  He 
would  have  been  more  impressed  had  he  heard  her  private 
and  confidential  accounts  of  his  calls.  He  held  peculiar 
notions  as  to  the  wooing  of  girls.  He  said  that  the  best 
work  of  a  man^s  career  should  be  laid  reverently  at  their 
feet  Ruskin  writes  something  like  this  somewhere,  I 
think;  but  in  ordinary  Hfe  a  few  kisses  are  better  and  save 
time. 

About  a  month  after  he  had  lost  his  heart  to  Miss 
Venner,  and  had  been  doing  his  work  vilely  in  conse- 
quence, the  first  idea  of  his  Native  Rule  in  Central  India 
struck  Wressley  and  filled  him  with  joy.  It  was,  as  he 
sketched  it,  a  great  thing — the  work  of  his  life — a  really 
comprehensive  survey  of  a  most  fascinating  subject — to 
be  written  with  ail  the  special  and  laboriously  acquired 


WRESSLEY  OF  THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE  301 

knowledge  of  Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office — a  gift  fit  for 
an  Empress. 

He  told  Miss  Venner  that  he  was  going  to  take  leave, 
and  hoped,  on  his  return,  to  bring  her  a  present  worthy  of 
her  acceptance.  Would  she  wait?  Certainly  she  would. 
Wressley  drew  seventeen  hundred  rupees  a  month.  She 
would  wait  a  year  for  that.  Her  Mamma  would  help  her 
to  wait. 

So  Wressley  took  one  year's  leave  and  all  the  available 
documents,  about  a  truck-load,  that  he  could  lay  hands 
on,  and  went  down  to  Central  India  with  his  notion  hot  in 
his  head.  He  began  his  book  in  the  land  he  was  writ- 
ing of.  Too  much  official  correspondence  had  made  him 
a  frigid  work  man,  and  he  must  have  guessed  that  he 
needed  the  white  light  of  local  colour  on  his  palette.  This 
is  a  dangerous  paint  for  amateurs  to  play  with. 

Heavens,  how  that  man  worked!  He  caught  his 
Rajahs,  analysed  his  Rajahs,  and  traced  them  up  into 
the  mists  of  Time  and  beyond,  with  their  queens  and 
their  concubines.  He  dated  and  cross-dated,  pedigreed 
and  triple-pedigreed,  compared,  noted,  connoted,  wove, 
strung,  sorted,  selected,  inferred,  calendared  and  counter- 
calendared  for  ten  hours  a  day.  And,  because  this 
sudden  and  new  light  of  Love  was  upon  him,  he  turned 
those  dry  bones  of  history  and  dirty  records  of  misdeeds 
into  things  to  weep  or  to  laugh  over  as  he  pleased.  His 
heart  and  soul  were  at  the  end  of  his  pen,  and  they  got 
into  the  ink.  He  was  dowered  with  sympathy,  insight, 
humour,  and  style  for  two  hundred  and  thirty  days  and 
nights;  and  his  book  was  a  Book.  He  had  liis  vast 
special  knowledge  with  him,  so  to  speak;  but  the  spirit, 
the  woven-in  human  Touch,  the  poetry  and  the  power  of 


jos  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

the  output,  were  beyond  all  special  knowledge.  But  I 
doubt  whether  he  knew  the  gift  that  was  in  him  then, 
and  thus  he  may  have  lost  some  happiness.  He  was  toil- 
ing for  TiUie  Venner,  not  for  himself.  INIen  often  do  their 
best  work  blind,  for  some  one  else's  sake. 

Also,  though  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story,  in 
India,  where  every  one  knows  every  one  else,  you  can 
watch  men  being  driven,  by  the  women  who  govern  them, 
out  of  the  rank-and-file  and  sent  to  take  up  points  alone. 
A  good  man,  once  started,  goes  forward;  but  an  average 
man,  so  soon  as  the  woman  loses  interest  in  his  success  as 
a  tribute  to  her  power,  comes  back  to  the  battalion  and  is 
no  more  heard  of. 

Wressley  bore  the  first  copy  of  his  book  to  Simla,  and, 
blushing  and  stammering,  presented  it  to  Miss  Venner. 
She  read  a  little  of  it.  I  give  her  review  verbatim — 'Oh, 
your  book?  It's  all  about  those  howwid  Wajahs.  I 
didn't  understand  it.' 

*****  *  * 

Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office  was  broken,  smashed, — I 
am  not  exaggerating, — by  this  one  frivolous  little  girl.  All 
that  he  could  say  feebly  was—'  But— but  it's  my  magnum 
opus  I  The  work  of  my  Hfe.'  Miss  Venner  did  not  know 
what  magnum  opus  meant;  but  she  knew  that  Captain 
Kerrington  had  won  three  races  at  the  last  Gymkhana. 
Wressley  didn't  press  her  to  wait  for  him  any  longer.  He 
had  sense  enough  for  that. 

Then  came  the  reaction  after  the  year's  strain,  and 
Wressley  went  back  to  the  Foreign  Ofiice  and  his  'Wa- 
jahs,' a  compiling,  gazetteering,  report-writing  hack  who 
wovdd  have  been  dear  at  three  h^idred  rupees  a  month. 


WRESSLEY  OF  THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE  303 

He  abided  by  Miss  Vermer^s  review.  Which  proves 
that  the  inspiration  in  the  book  was  purely  temporary  and 
unconnected  with  himself.  Nevertheless,  he  had  no 
right  to  sink,  in  a  hill-tarn,  five  packing-cases,  brought  up 
at  enormous  expense  from  Bombay,  of  the  best  book  of 
Indian  history  every  written. 

When  he  sold  off  before  retiring,  some  years  later,  I  was 
turning  over  his  shelves,  and  came  across  the  only  existing 
copy  of  Native  Rule  in  Central  India — the  copy  that  Miss 
Venner  could  not  understand.  I  read  it,  sitting  on  his 
mule-trunks,  as  long  as  the  Hght  lasted,  and  offered  him 
his  own  price  for  it.  He  looked  over  my  shoulder  for  a 
few  pages  and  said  to  himself  drearily — 

'Now,  how  in  the  world  did  I  come  to  write  such 
damned  good  stuff  as  that? ' 

Then  to  me — 

'Take  it  and  keep  it.  Write  one  of  your  penny-farth- 
ing yarns  about  its  birth.  Perhaps — perhaps — the  whole 
business  may  have  been  ordained  to  that  end.' 

Which,  knowing  what  Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office 
was  once,  struck  me  as  about  the  bitterest  thing  that  I 
had  ever  heard  a  man  say  of  his  own  work. 


BY  WORD  OF  MOUTH 

Not  though  you  die  to-night,  O  Sweet,  and  wail, 

A  spectre  at  my  door, 
Shall  mortal  Fear  make  Love  immortal  fail — 

I  shall  but  love  you  more, 
Who,  from  Death's  house  returning,  give  me  still 
One  moment's  comfort  in  my  matchless  ill. 

— Shadow  Houses. 

This  tale  may  be  explained  by  those  who  know  how  souls 
are  made,  and  where  the  bounds  of  the  Possible  are  put 
down.  I  have  lived  long  enough  in  this  India  to  know 
that  it  is  best  to  know  nothing,  and  can  only  write  the 
story  as  it  happened. 

Dumoise  was  our  Civil  Surgeon  at  Meridki,  and  we 
called  him  'Dormouse,'  because  he  was  a  round  little, 
sleepy  Httle  man.  He  was  a  good  Doctor  and  never 
quarrelled  with  any  one,  not  even  with  our  Deputy  Com- 
missioner who  had  the  manners  of  a  bargee  and  the  tact 
of  a  horse.  He  married  a  girl  as  round  and  as  sleepy- 
looking  as  himself.  She  was  a  Miss  Hillardyce,  daughter 
of  'Squash'  Hillardyce  of  the  Berars,  who  married  his 
Chief's  daughter  by  mistake.    But  that  is  another  story. 

A  honeymoon  in  India  is  seldom  more  than  a  week  long ; 
but  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  a  couple  from  extending  it 
over  two  or  three  years.  India  is  a  delightful  country  for 
married  folk  who  are  wrapped  up  in  one  another.  They 
can  live  absolutely  alone  and  without  interruption— just 

304 


BY  WORD  OF  MOUTH  305 

as  the  Domiice  did.  Those  two  little  people  retired  from 
the  world  after  their  marriage,  and  were  very  happy. 
They  were  forced,  of  course,  to  give  occasional  dinners, 
but  they  made  no  friends  thereby,  and  the  Station  went 
its  own  way  and  forgot  them;  only  saying,  occasionally, 
that  Dormouse  was  the  best  of  good  fellows,  though  dull. 
A  Civil  Surgeon  who  never  quarrels  is  a  rarity,  appreci- 
ated as  such. 

Few  people  can  afford  to  play  Robinson  Crusoe  any- 
where— least  of  all  in  India,  where  we  are  few  in  the  land 
and  very  much  dependent  on  each  other's  kind  offices. 
Dumoise  was  wrong  in  shutting  himself  from  the  world 
for  a  year,  and  he  discovered  his  mistake  when  an  epi- 
demic of  typhoid  broke  out  in  the  Station  in  the  heart 
of  the  cold  weather,  and  his  wife  went  down.  He  was  a 
shy  little  man,  and  five  days  were  wasted  before  he 
realised  that  Mrs.  Dumoise  was  burning  with  something 
worse  than  simple  fever,  and  three  days  more  passed  be- 
fore he  ventured  to  call  on  Mrs.  Shute,  the  Engineer's 
wife,  and  timidly  speak  about  his  trouble.  Nearly  every 
household  in  India  knows  that  Doctors  are  very  helpless 
in  typhoid.  The  battle  must  be  fought  out  between 
Death  and  the  Nurses  minute  by  minute  and  degree  by 
degree.  Mrs.  Shute  almost  boxed  Dumoise's  ears  for 
what  she  called  his  'criminal  delay,'  and  went  off  at  once 
to  look  after  the  poor  girl.  We  had  seven  cases  of  typhoid 
in  the  Station  that  winter  and,  as  the  average  of  death  is 
about  one  in  every  five  cases,  we  felt  certain  that  we 
should  have  to  lose  somebody.  But  all  did  their  best. 
The  women  sat  up  nursing  the  women,  and  the  men 
turned  to  and  tended  the  bachelors  who  were  down,  and 
we  wrestled  with  those  typhoid  cases  for  fifty-six  days, 


3o6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

and  brought  them  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  in 
triumph.  But,  just  when  we  thought  all  was  over,  and 
were  going  to  give  a  dance  to  celebrate  the  victory,  little 
Mrs.  Dumoise  got  a  relapse  and  died  in  a  week  and  the 
Station  went  to  the  funeral.  Dumoise  broke  down  ut- 
terly at  the  brink  of  her  grave,  and  had  to  be  taken  away. 

After  her  death,  Dumoise  crept  into  his  house  and  re- 
fused to  be  comforted.  He  did  his  duties  perfectly,  but 
we  all  felt  that  he  should  go  on  leave,  and  the  other  men 
of  his  own  Service  told  him  so.  Dumoise  was  very  thank- 
ful for  the  suggestion — he  was  thankful  for  anything  in 
those  days — and  went  to  Chini  on  a  walking-tour.  Chini 
is  some  twenty  marches  from  Simla,  in  the  heart  of  the 
Hills,  and  the  scenery  is  good  if  you  are  in  trouble.  You 
pass  through  big,  still  deodar-forests,  and  under  big,  still 
cliffs,  and  over  big,  still  grass-downs  swelling  like  a 
woman's  breasts;  and  the  wind  across  the  grass  and  the 
rain  among  the  deodars  say — 'Hush — hush — hush!'  So 
little  Dumoise  was  packed  off  to  Chini,  to  wear  down  his 
grief  with  a  full-plate  camera  and  a  rifle.  He  took  also  a 
useless  bearer,  because  the  man  had  been  his  wife's 
favourite  servant.  He  was  idle  and  a  thief,  but  Dumoise 
trusted  everything  to  him. 

On  his  way  back  from  Chini,  Dumoise  turned  aside  to 
Bagi,  through  the  Forest  Reserve  which  is  on  the  spur  of 
Mount  Huttoo.  Some  men  who  have  travelled  more 
than  a  little  say  that  the  march  from  Kotegarh  to  Bagi  is 
one  of  the  finest  in  creation.  It  runs  through  dark  wet 
forest,  and  ends  suddenly  in  bleak,  nipped  hillside  and 
black  rocks.  Bagi  dak-bungalow  is  open  to  all  the  winds 
and  is  bitterly  cold.  Few  people  go  to  Bagi.  Perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  why  Dumoise  went  there.    He  halted 


BY  WORD  OF  MOUTH  307 

at  seven  in  the  evening,  and  his  bearer  went  down  the  hill- 
side to  the  village  to  engage  cooUes  for  the  next  day's 
march.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  night-winds  were  be- 
ginning to  croon  among  the  rocks.  Dumoise  leaned  on 
the  railing  of  the  verandah,  waiting  for  his  bearer  to  re- 
turn. The  man  came  back  almost  immediately  after  he 
had  disappeared,  and  at  such  a  rate  that  Dumoise  fancied 
he  must  have  crossed  a  bear.  He  was  running  as  hard  as 
he  could  up  the  face  of  the  hill. 

But  there  was  no  bear  to  account  for  his  terror.  He 
raced  to  the  verandah  and  fell  down,  the  blood  spurting 
from  his  nose  and  his  face  iron-gray.  Then  he  gurgled — 
*  I  have  seen  the  Memsahib !    I  have  seen  the  Memsahib  I  * 

'  Where? '  said  Dumoise. 

'Down  there,  walking  on  the  road  to  the  village.  She 
was  in  a  blue  dress,  and  she  Hfted  the  veil  of  her  bonnet 
and  said — ''  Ram  Dass,  give  my  salaams  to  the  Sahib,  and 
tell  him  that  I  shall  meet  him  next  month  at  Nuddea." 
Then  I  ran  away,  because  I  was  afraid.' 

What  Dumoise  said  or  did  I  do  not  know.  Ram  Dass 
declares  that  he  said  nothing,  but  walked  up  and  down 
the  verandah  all  the  cold  night,  waiting  for  the  Memsahib 
to  come  up  the  hill,  and  stretching  out  his  arms  into  the 
dark.  But  no  Memsahib  came,  and,  next  day,  he  went  on 
to  Simla  cross-questioning  the  bearer  every  hour. 

Ram  Dass  could  only  say  that  he  had  met  Mrs.  Du- 
moise and  that  she  had  lifted  up  her  veil  and  given  him 
the  message  which  he  had  faithfully  repeated  to  Dumoise. 
To  this  statement  Ram  Dass  adhered.  He  did  not  know 
where  Nuddea  was,  had  no  friends  at  Nuddea,  and  most 
certainly  would  never  go  to  Nuddea;  not  though  his  pay 
were  doubled. 


3o8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Nuddea  is  in  Bengal  and  has  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  a  Doctor  serving  in  the  Punjab.  It  must  be  more 
than  twelve  hundred  miles  south  of  Meridki. 

Dumoise  went  through  Simla  without  halting,  and  re- 
turned to  Meridki,  there  to  take  over  charge  from  the 
man  who  had  been  officiating  for  him  during  his  tour. 
There  were  some  Dispensary  accoimts  to  be  explained, 
and  some  recent  ordersof  the  Surgeon- General  to  be  noted, 
and,  altogether,  the  taking-over  was  a  full  day's  work. 
In  the  evening,  Dumoise  told  his  locum  tenens,  who  was  an 
old  friend  of  his  bachelor  days,  what  had  happened  at 
Bagi;  and  the  man  said  that  Ram  Dass  might  as  well  have 
chosen  Tuticorin  while  he  was  about  it. 

At  that  moment,  a  telegraph-peon  came  in  with  a 
telegram  from  Simla,  ordering  Dumoise  not  to  take  over 
charge  at  Meridki,  but  to  go  at  once  to  Nuddea  on  special 
duty.  There  was  a  nasty  outbreak  of  cholera  at  Nuddea, 
and  the  Bengal  Government,  being  short-handed,  as 
usual,  had  borrowed  a  Surgeon  from  the  Pimjab. 

Dumoise  threw  the  telegram  across  the  table  and  said 
— ^Well?' 

The  other  Doctor  said  nothing.  It  was  all  that  he 
could  say. 

Then  he  remembered  that  Dumoise  had  passed  through 
Simla  on  his  way  from  Bagi;  and  thus  might,  possibly 
have  heard  first  news  of  the  impending  transfer. 

He  tried  to  put  the  question,  and  the  impHed  suspicion 
into  words,  but  Dumoise  stopped  him  with — 'If  I  had 
desired  that,  I  should  never  have  come  back  from  Chini. 
I  was  shooting  there.  I  wish  to  live,  for  I  have  things  to 
do     .     .     .    but  I  shall  not  be  sorry.' 

The  other  man  bowed  his  head,  and  helped,  in  the 


BY  WORD  OF  MOUTH  300' 

twilight,  to  pack  up  Dumoise's  just  opened  trunks.  Rom 
Dass  entered  with  the  lamps. 

'Where  is  the  Sahib  going?  *  he  asked. 

*To  Nuddea/  said  Dumoise,  softly. 

Ram  Dass  clawed  Dumoise's  knees  and  boots  and 
begged  him  not  to  go.  Ram  Dass  wept  and  howled  till 
he  was  turned  out  of  the  room.  Then  he  wrapped  up  all 
hi*  belongings  and  came  back  to  ask  for  a  character.  He 
was  not  going  to  Nuddea  to  see  his  Sahib  die  and,  perhaps, 
to  die  himself. 

So  Dumoise  gave  the  man  his  wages  and  went  down  to 
Nuddea  alone;  the  other  Doctor  bidding  him  good-bye  as 
one  under  sentence  of  death. 

Eleven  days  later  he  had  joined  his  Memsahib;  and  the 
Bengal  Government  had  to  borrow  a  fresh  Doctor  to 
cope  with  that  epidemic  at  Nuddea.  The  first  importa- 
tion lay  dead  in  Chooadanga  dlk-bungalow. 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCE 

By  the  hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat  up-tossed 
From  the  Cliff  where  She  lay  in  the  Sun, 

Fell  the  Stone 
To  the  Tarn  where  the  daylight  is  lost; 
So  She  fell  from  the  light  of  the  Sun, 

And  alone. 

Now  the  fall  was  ordained  from  the  first, 
With  the  Goat  and  the  Cliff  and  the  Tarn, 

But  the  Stone 
Knows  only  Her  life  is  accursed, 
As  She  sinks  in  the  depths  of  the  Tam, 

And  alone. 

Oh,  Thou  who  hast  builded  the  world! 
Oh,  Thou  who  hast  lighted  the  Sun! 
Oh,  Thou  who  hast  darkened  the  Tam! 

Judge  Thou 
The  sin  of  the  Stone  that  was  hurled 
By  the  Goat  from  the  light  of  the  Sun, 
As  She  sinks  in  the  mire  of  the  Tarn, 

Even  now — even  now — even  now! 
— From  the  Unptiblislted  Papers  of  Mcintosh  Jellaludin. 

'Say  is  it  dawn,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  Bower, 
Thou  whom  I  long  for,  who  longest  for  me? 
Oh,  be  it  night— be  it ' 

Here  he  fell  over  a  Uttle  camel-colt  that  was  sleeping  ii* 
the  Serai  where  the  horse-traders  and  the  best  of  the 

310 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCE  311 

blackguards  from  Central  Asia  live;  and,  because  he  was 
very  drunk  indeed  and  the  night  was  dark,  he  could  not 
rise  again  till  I  helped  him.  That  was  the  beginning  of 
my  acquaintance  with  Mcintosh  Jellaludin.  When  a 
loafer,  and  drunk,  sings  'The  Song  of  the  Bower '  he  must 
be  worth  cultivating.  He  got  off  the  camel's  back  and 
said,  rather  thickly, '  I — I — I'm  a  bit  screwed,  but  a  dip  in 
Loggerhead  will  put  me  right  again;  and,  I  say,  have  you 
spoken  to  Symonds  about  the  mare's  knees? ' 

Now  Loggerhead  was  six  thousand  weary  miles  away 
from  us,  close  to  Mesopotamia,  where  you  mustn't  fish 
and  poaching  is  impossible,  and  Charley  Symonds' 
stable  a  half-mile  further  across  the  paddocks.  It  was 
strange  to  hear  all  the  old  names,  on  a  May  night,  among 
the  horses  and  camels  of  the  Sultan  Caravanserai.  Then 
the  man  seemed  to  remember  himself  and  sober  down  at 
the  same  time.  He  leaned  against  the  camel  and  pointed 
to  a  comer  of  the  Serai  where  a  lamp  was  burning. 

'I  live  there,'  said  he,  'and  I  should  be  extremely 
obliged  if  you  would  be  good  enough  to  help  my  mutinous 
feet  thither;  for  I  am  more  than  usually  drunk— most — 
most  phenomenally  tight.  But  not  in  respect  to  my 
head.  *'My  brain  cries  out  against" — how  does  it  go? 
But  my  head  rides  on  the — rolls  on  the  dunghill  I  should 
have  said,  and  controls  the  qualm.' 

I  helped  him  through  the  gangs  of  tethered  horses  and 
he  collapsed  on  the  edge  of  the  verandah  in  front  of  the 
line  of  native  quarters. 

'Thanks — a  thousand  thanks!  O  Moon  and  little, 
little  Stars!  To  think  that  a  man  should  so  shamelessly 
.  .  .  Infamous  liquor  too.  Ovid  in  exile  drank  no 
worse.    Better.    It  was  frozen.    Alas!    I  had  no  ice. 


312  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

Good-night.  I  would  introduce  you  to  my  wife  were  1 
sober — or  she  civilised/ 

A  native  woman  came  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  room, 
and  began  calling  the  man  names;  so  I  went  away.  He 
was  the  most  iateresting  loafer  that  I  had  had  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  for  a  long  time;  and  later  on  he  be- 
came a  friend  of  mine.  He  was  a  tall,  well-built,  fair 
man,  fearfully  shaken  with  drink,  and  he  looked  nearer 
fifty  than  the  thirty-five  which,  he  said,  was  his  real  age. 
When  a  man  begins  to  sink  in  India,  and  is  not  sent  Home 
by  his  friends  as  soon  as  may  be,  he  falls  very  low  from  a 
respectable  point  of  view.  By  the  time  he  changes  his 
creed,  as  did  Mcintosh,  he  is  past  redemption. 

In  most  big  cities,  natives  will  tell  you  of  two  or  three 
SahibSy  generally  low-caste,  who  have  turned  Hindu  or 
Mussulman,  and  who  live  more  or  less  as  such.  But  it  is 
not  often  that  you  can  get  to  know  them.  As  Mcintosh 
himself  used  to  say,  ^If  I  change  my  religion  for  my 
stomach's  sake,  I  do  not  seek  to  become  a  martyr  to 
missionaries,  nor  am  I  anxious  for  notoriety.' 

At  the  outset  of  acquaintance  Mcintosh  warned 
me.  'Remember  this.  I  am  not  an  object  for  charity. 
I  require  neither  your  money,  your  food,  nor  your  cast- 
off  raiment.  I  am  that  rare  animal,  a  self-supporting 
drunkard.  If  you  choose,  I  will  smoke  with  you,  for 
the  tobacco  of  the  bazars  does  not,  I  admit,  suit  my 
palate;  and  I  will  borrow  any  books  which  you  may 
not  specially  value,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  I 
shall  sell  them  for  bottles  of  excessively  filthy  country- 
liquors.  In  return,  you  shall  share  such  hospitality  as 
my  house  affords.  ..Here  is  a  charpoy  on  which  two 
can  sit,  and  it  is  possible  that  there  may,  from  time  to 


J|^ 


i 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCE  313 

time,  be  food  in  that  platter.  Drink,  unfortunately, 
you  will  find  on  the  premises  at  any  hour:  and  thus 
I  make  you  welcome  to  all  my  poor  establishment/ 

I  was  admitted  to  the  Mcintosh  household — I  and 
my  good  tobacco.  But  nothing  else.  Unluckily,  one 
cannot  visit  a  loafer  in  the  Serai  by  day.  Friends 
buying  horses  would  not  understand  it.  Consequently, 
I  was  obliged  to  see  Mcintosh  after  dark.  He  laughed 
at  this,  and  said  simply,  *  You  are  perfectly  right.  When 
I  enjoyed  a  position  in  society,  rather  higher  than 
yours,  I  should  have  done  exactly  the  same  thing. 
Good  Heavens!  I  was  once^ — he  spoke  as  though  he 
had  fallen  from  the  Command  of  a  Regiment — ^an 
Oxford  Man!'  This  accounted  for  the  reference  to 
Charley  Symonds'  stable. 

*You,*  said  Mcintosh,  slowly,  'have  not  had  that 
advantage;  but,  to  outward  appearance,  you  do  not 
seem  possessed  of  a  craving  for  strong  drinks.  On  the 
whole,  I  fancy  that  you  are  the  luckier  of  the  two. 
Yet  I  am  not  certain.  You  are — forgive  my  saying  so 
even  while  I  am  smoking  your  excellent  tobacco — pain- 
fully ignorant  of  many  things.' 

We  were  sitting  together  on  the  edge  of  his  bedstead, 
for  he  owned  no  chairs,  watching  the  horses  being 
watered  for  the  night,  while  the  native  woman  was  pre- 
paring dinner.  I  did  not  like  being  patronised  by  a 
loafer,  but  I  was  his  guest  for  the  time  being,  though 
he  owned  only  one  very  torn  alpaca-coat  and  a  pair  of 
trousers  made  out  of  gunny-bags.  He  took  the  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth,  and  went  on  judicially,  'All  things 
considered,  I  doubt  whether  you  are  the  luckier.  I  do 
not  refer  to  your  extremely  limited  classical  attain- 


314  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

ments,  or  your  excruciating  quantities,  but  to  your 
gross  ignorance  of  matters  more  immediately  under 
your  notice.  That,  for  instance,'  he  pointed  to  a  woman 
cleaning  a  samovar  near  the  well  in  the  centre  of  the 
Serai.  She  was  flicking  the  water  out  of  the  spout  in 
regular  cadenced  jerks. 

'There  are  ways  and  ways  of  cleaning  samovars. 
If  you  knew  why  she  was  doing  her  work  in  that  par- 
ticular fashion,  you  would  know  what  the  Spanish 
Monk  meant  when  he  said — 

I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulf) — 
In  three  sips  the  Aryan  frustrate, 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp — 

and  many  other  things  which  now  are  hidden  from  your 
eyes.  However,  Mrs.  Mcintosh  has  prepared  dinner. 
Let  us  come  and  eat  after  the  fashion  of  the  people  of 
the  country — of  whom,  by  the  way,  you  know  nothing.' 

The  native  woman  dipped  her  hand  in  the  dish  with 
us.  This  was  wrong.  The  wife  should  always  wait  until 
the  husband  has  eaten.  Mcintosh  Jellaludin  apolo- 
gised, saying — 

*It  is  an  English  prejudice  which  I  have  not  been 
able  to  overcome;  and  she  loves  me.  Why,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand.  I  foregathered  wdth 
her  at  Jullundur,  three  years  ago,  and  she  has  remained 
with  me  ever  since.  I  believe  her  to  be  moral,  and 
know  her  to  be  skilled  in  cookery.' 

He  patted  the  woman's  head  as  he  spoke,  and  she 
cooed  softly.     She  was  not  pretty  to  look  at. 

Mcintosh  never  told  me  what  position  he  had  held 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCE  315 

before  his  fall.  He  was,  when  sober,  a  scholar  and  a 
gentleman.  When  drunk,  he  was  rather  more  of  the 
first  than  the  second.  He  used  to  get  drunk  about 
once  a  week  for  two  days.  On  those  occasions  the 
native  woman  tended  him  while  he  raved  in  all  tongues 
except  his  own.  One  day,  indeed,  he  began  reciting 
Atalanta  in  Calydon,  and  went  through  it  to  the  end, 
beating  time  to  the  swing  of  the  verse  with  a  bedstead- 
leg.  But  he  did  most  of  his  ravings  in  Greek  or  Ger- 
man. The  man's  mind  was  a  perfect  rag-bag  of  useless 
things.  Once,  when  he  was  beginning  to  get  sober,  he 
told  me  that  I  was  the  only  rational  being  in  the  Inferno 
into  which  he  had  descended — a  Virgil  in  the  Shades, 
he  said — and  that,  in  return  for  my  tobacco,  he  would, 
before  he  died,  give  me  the  materials  of  a  new  Inferno 
that  should  make  me  greater  than  Dante.  Then  he 
fell  asleep  on  a  horse-blanket  and  woke  up  quite  calm. 

'Man,'  said  he,  'when  you  have  reached  the  utter- 
most depths  of  degradation,  Httle  incidents  which  would 
vex  a  higher  Kfe  are  to  you  of  no  consequence.  Last 
night,  my  soul  was  among  the  Gods;  but  I  make  no 
doubt  that  my  bestial  body  was  writhing  down  here  in 
the  garbage.' 

'You  were  abominably  drunk,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,'  I  said. 

'I  was  dnmk — filthily  dnmk.  I  who  am  the  son 
of  a  man  with  whom  you  have  no  concern — I  who  was 
once  Fellow  of  a  College  whose  buttery-hatch  you  have 
not  seen.  I  was  loathsomely  drunk.  But  consider 
how  lightly  I  am  touched.  It  is  nothing  to  me.  Less 
than  nothing;  for  I  do  not  even  feel  the  headache  which 
should  be  my  portion.    Now,  in  a  higher  life,  how  ghastly 


3i6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

would  have  been  my  punishment,  how  bitter  my  repent- 
ance! Believe  me,  my  friend  with  the  neglected  educa- 
tion, the  highest  is  as  the  lowest — always  supposing  each 
degree  extreme.' 

He  turned  round  on  the  blanket,  put  his  head  be- 
tween his  fists,  and  continued — 

'On  the  Soul  which  I  have  lost  and  on  the  Conscience 
which  I  have  killed,  I  tell  you  that  I  cannot  feel !  I  am  as 
the  Gods,  knowing  good  and  evil,  but  untouched  by 
either.     Is  this  enviable  or  is  it  not? ' 

When  a  man  has  lost  the  warning  of  *next  morning's 
head,'  he  must  be  in  a  bad  state.  I  answered,  looking  at 
Mcintosh  on  the  blanket,  with  his  hair  over  his  eyes,  and 
his  lips  blue-white,  that  I  did  not  think  the  insensibility 
good  enough. 

'For  pity's  sake,  don't  say  that!  I  tell  you,  it  is  good 
and  most  enviable.    Think  of  my  consolations ! ' 

*Have  you  so  many,  then,  Mcintosh? ' 

'Certainly;  your  attempts  at  sarcasm,  which  is  essen- 
tially the  weapon  of  a  cultured  man,  are  crude.  First, 
my  attainments,  my  classical  and  literary  knowledge, 
blurred,  perhaps,  by  immoderate  drinking — ^which  re- 
minds me  that  before  my  soul  went  to  the  Gods  last  night, 
I  sold  the  Pickering  Horace  you  so  kindly  lent  me.  Ditta 
Mull  the  clothesman  has  it.  It  fetched  ten  annas,  and 
may  be  redeemed  for  a  rupee — ^but  still  infinitely  supe- 
rior to  yours.  Secondly,  the  abiding  alffection  of  Mrs. 
Mcintosh,  best  of  wives.  Thirdly,  a  monument,  more 
enduring  than  brass,  which  I  have  built  up  in  the  seven 
years  of  my  degradation.' 

He  stopped  here,  and  crawled  across  the  room  for  a 
drink  of  water.    He  was  very  shaky  and  sick. 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCE  3x7 

He  referred  several  times  to  his  'treasure* — some  great 
possession  that  he  owned — ^but  I  held  this  to  be  the  raving 
of  drink.  He  was  as  poor  and  as  proud  as  he  could  be. 
His  manner  was  not  pleasant,  but  he  knew  enough  about 
the  natives,  among  whom  seven  years  of  his  life  had 
been  spent,  to  make  his  acquaintance  worth  having.  He 
used  actually  to  laugh  at  Strickland  as  an  ignorant  man — 
*  ignorant  West  and  East ' — he  said.  His  boast  was,  first, 
that  he  was  an  Oxford  man  of  rare  and  shining  parts, 
which  may  or  may  not  have  been  true — I  did  not  know 
enough  to  check  his  statements — and,  secondly,  that  he 
'had  his  hand  on  the  pulse  of  native  life^ — ^which  was  a 
fact.  As  an  Oxford  man,  he  struck  me  as  a  prig:  he  was 
always  throwing  his  education  about.  As  a  Mohanmie- 
dan  faquir — as  Mcintosh  Jellaludin — he  was  all  that  I 
wanted  for  my  own  ends.  He  smoked  several  pounds  of 
my  tobacco,  and  taught  me  several  oimces  of  things 
worth  knowing;  but  he  would  never  accept  any  gifts,  not 
even  when  the  cold  weather  came,  and  gripped  the  poor 
thin  chest  under  the  poor  thin  alpaca-coat.  He  grew 
very  angry,  and  said  that  I  had  insulted  him,  and  that  he 
was  not  going  into  hospital.  He  had  lived  like  a  beast 
and  he  would  die  rationally,  like  a  man. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  died  of  pneiunonia;  and  on  the 
night  of  his  death  sent  over  a  grubby  note  asking  me  to 
come  and  help  him  to  die. 

The  native  woman  was  weeping  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 
Mcintosh,  wrapped  in  a  cotton  cloth,  was  too  weak  to 
resent  a  fur  coat  being  thrown  over  him.  He  was 
very  active  as  far  as  his  mind  was  concerned,  and  his 
eyes  were  blazing.  When  he  had  Abused  the  Doctor 
who  came  with  me,  so  foully  that  the  indignant  old 


3i8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

fellow  left,  he  cursed  me  for  a  few  minutes  and  calmed 
down. 

Then  he  told  his  wife  to  fetch  out  'The  Book'  from  a 
hole  in  the  wall.  She  brought  out  a  big  bundle,  wrapped 
in  the  tail  of  a  petticoat,  of  old  sheets  of  miscellaneous 
notepaper,  all  numbered  and  covered  with  fine  cramped 
writing.  Mcintosh  ploughed  his  hand  through  the  rub- 
bish and  stirred  it  up  lovingly. 

*This,'  he  said,  4s  my  work — the  Book  of  Mcintosh 
Jellaludin,  showing  what  he  saw  and  how  he  lived,  and 
what  befell  him  and  others;  being  also  an  account  of  the 
life  and  sins  and  death  of  Mother  Maturin.  What  Mirza 
Murad  Ali  Beg's  book  is  to  all  other  books  on  native  Ufe, 
will  my  work  be  to  Mirza  Murad  Ali  Beg's  1 ' 

This,  as  will  be  conceded  by  any  one  who  knows  Mirza 
Murad  Ali  Beg's  book,  was  a  sweeping  statement.  The 
papers  did  not  look  specially  valuable;  but  Mcintosh 
handled  them  as  if  they  were  currency-notes.  Then  said 
he  slowly — 

*ln  despite  the  many  weaknesses  of  your  education, 
you  have  been  good  to  me.  I  will  speak  of  your  tobacco 
when  I  reach  the  Gods.  I  owe  you  much  thanks  for  many 
kindnesses.  But  I  abominate  indebtedness.  For  this 
reason,  I  bequeath  to  you  now  the  monument  more  en- 
during than  brass — my  one  book — rude  and  imperfect  in 
parts,  but  oh  how  rare  in  others!  I  wonder  if  you  will 
understand  it.  It  is  a  gift  more  honourable  than  .  .  . 
Bah!  where  is  my  brain  rambHng  to?  You  will  mutilate 
it  horribly.  You  will  knock  out  the  gems  you  call  Latin 
quotations,  you  PhiUstine,  and  you  will  butcher  the  style 
to  carve  into  your  own  jerky  jargon;  but  you  cannot 
destroy  the  whole  of  it.  *  I  bequeath  it  to  you.     Ethel 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCE  3^9 

.  .  My  brain  again!  .  .  .  Mrs.  Mcintosh,  bear  wit- 
ness that  I  give  the  Sahib  all  these  papers.  They  would 
be  of  no  use  to  you,  Heart  of  my  Heart;  and  I  lay  it  upon 
you,'  he  turned  to  me  here, '  that  you  do  not  let  my  book 
die  in  its  present  form.  It  is  yours  unconditionally— the 
story  of  Mcintosh  Jellaludin,  which  is  not  the  story  of 
Mcintosh  Jellaludin,  but  of  a  greater  man  than  he,  and  of 
a  far  greater  wom.an.  Listen  now!  I  am  neither  mad 
nor  drunk !    That  book  will  make  you  famous.' 

I  said '  Thank  you,'  as  the  native  woman  put  the  bundle 
into  my  arms. 

*  My  only  baby ! '  said  Mcintosh,  with  a  smile.  He  was 
sinking  fast,  but  he  continued  to  talk  as  long  as  breath  re- 
mained. I  waited  for  the  end;  knowing  that  in  six  cases 
out  of  ten  a  dying  man  calls  for  his  mother.  He  turned  on 
his  side  and  said — 

*Say  how  it  come  into  your  possession.  No  one  will 
believe  you,  but  my  name,  at  least,  will  live.  You  will 
treat  it  brutally,  I  know  you  will.  Some  of  it  must  go; 
the  public  are  fools  and  prudish  fools.  I  was  their  serv- 
ant once.  But  do  your  mangling  gently — very  gently. 
It  is  a  great  work,  and  I  have  paid  for  it  in  seven  years' 
damnation.' 

His  voice  stopped  for  ten  or  twelve  breaths,  and  then  he 
began  mumbling  a  prayer  of  some  kind  in  Greek.  The 
native  woman  cried  very  bitterly.  Lastly,  he  rose  in  bed 
and  said,  as  loudly  as  slowly— 'Not  guilty,  my  Lord!' 

Then  he  fell  back,  and  the  stupor  held  him  till  he  died. 
The  native  woman  ran  into  the  Serai  among  the  horses, 
and  screamed  and  beat  her  breasts;  for  she  had  loved  him. 

Perhaps  his  last  sentence  in  life  told  what  Mclnto^ 
had  once  gone  through;  but,  saving  the  big  bundle  of  old 


3flo  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS 

sheets  in  the  cloth,  there  was  nothing  in  his  room  to  s 
who  or  what  he  had  been. 

The  papers  were  in  a  hopeless  muddle. 

Strickland  helped  me  to  sort  them,  and  he  said  that  1 
writer  was  either  an  extreme  liar  or  a  most  wonder 
person.    He  thought  the  former.    One  of  these  days,  >    ^ 
may  be  able  to  judge  for  yourselves.    The  bundle  neec    ' 
much  expurgation  and  was  full  of  Greek  nonsense,  at  t 
head  of  the  chapters,  which  has  all  been  cut  out. 

If  the  thing  is  ever  published,  some  one  may  pcrlu 
remember  this  story,  now  printed  as  a  safeguard  to  pre 
that  Mcintosh  Jellaludin  and  not  I  myself  wrote  the  Bo 
of  Mother  Maturin. 

I  don't  want  the  story  of  the  Giant's  Robe  to  come  ti 
in  my  case. 


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